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HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED 


PAPERS 


FROM  THE  FORUM  MAGAZINE 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  cfiLLINOSS. 


NEW  YORK 

D,  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1894 


Copyright,  1887, 

By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  of  ILLINOIS. 


AUTHOES. 


Edwabd  E.  Hale  ...... 

Thomas  Wentwoeth  Higginson  .  .  .  . 

F.  A.  P.  Baenard,  President  of  Columbia  College 

John  H.  Vincent,  Chancellor  of  Chautauqua  Uni¬ 
versity  ...... 

Professor  William  T.  Harris  .  .  .  . 

S.  C.  Bartlett,  President  of  Dartmouth  College 

J.  R.  Kendrick,  formerly  President  of  Yassab  Col- 

Xt^G’S  *•••••« 

Timothy  Dwight,  President  of  Yale  College  . 

E.  G.  Robinson,  President  of  Brown  University 

James  B.  Angell,  President  of  University  of  Michi- 
•  •  •  •  •  •  « 

Andrew  D.  White,  formerly  President  of  Cornell 
University  ...... 


First  Paper. 
Second  “ 
Third  “ 

Fourth  “ 
Fifth  “ 
Sixth  “ 

Seventh  “ 
Eighth  “ 
Ninth  “ 

Tenth  “ 

Eleventh  “ 


i.  I  ■  li  A  fi  Y 

OF  THE 

UNiVERSITYof  ILLiNOIS. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 

The  editor  of  The  Foehm  lias  thouglit  that  a  series  of  papers, 
in  wliicli  different  people  sliall  describe  the  methods  of  their 
school  education,  may  be  at  least  amusing,  and  perhaps  profit¬ 
able,  if  only  by  way  of  caution.  He  has,  therefore,  induced  a 
good  many  men  to  pose  on  his  platform  as  “  awful  warnings,” 
and,  as  it  happens  in  the  story  of  the  Indian  march,  he  selects 
a  little  elephant  to  lead  the  risky  way  down  into  the  river.  I 
anticipate  so  much  pleasure  from  reading  the  revelations  of 
those  who  come  after  me,  that  I  have  promised  to  be  as  frank 
as  Rousseau  pretended  to  be,  and  much  more  than  he  was,  in 
telling  my  story.  “Story — God  bless  you,  I  have  none  to 
tell.” 

Really,  I  am  selected  as  pioneer  in  this  march  because  there 
was  nothing  exceptional  in  my  school  or  college  course.  It  was 
just  like  that  of  thousands  of  other  men  of  the  last  fifty  years. 

I  never  was  sent  to  Germany  to  study.  I  never  played  with  an  ^ 
abacus.  I  never  sat  at  the  feet  of  any  Fellenberg.  I  did  see 
Mr.  Alcott’s  amusing  schools,  but  only  as  a  base  Philistine,  who 
went  in  to  scoff  and  came  away  to  report  transcendental  vagaries. 
The  everyday  education  of  a  boy  born  with  good  health,  of  good 
parents,  in  Hew  England,  sixty  odd  years  ago — this  is  what 
the  reader  is  to  follow,  and  what  came  of  it,  unless  he  judiciously 
skip  to  the  next  article,  to  read  what  Bishop  Coxe  says  of  cre¬ 
mation. 

I  had  the  great  good  luck  to  be  born  in  the  middle  of  a  large 
family.  What  saith  the  Yulgate?  “Da  mihi  nec  primum  esse 
nec  ultimum.”  Is  that  the  text?  My  Yulgate  is  in  too  small 
type  to  consult,  and  the  passage  will  be  hard  to  find,  but  when 
found  will  be  well  worth  noting.  I  lived  with  three  brothers 
and  three  sisters ;  I  was  the  fourth,  counting  each  way ;  and  I 
should  advise  anybody,  who  is  consulted  in  such  matters,  to 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


select  that  place  in  the  family  economy.  And  all  well-meaning 
parents  would  do  well  could  they  arrange  to  give  that  place  to 
each  of  the  nine  or  thirteen  children.  A  large  family  and  a 
good  place  in  it :  that  is  the  thing  to  he  very  grateful  for. 

While  you  are  planning,  also,  you  might  to  advantage  put  in 
absolutely  sound  health ;  a  good  vigorous  constitution.  For  a 
boy  or  young  man,  particularly,  put  in  a  digestion  which,  as  Dr. 
Holmes  says,  does  not  shrink  from  hot  gingerbread  just  before 
dinner  ;  that  is  an  excellent  marching  companion.  I  will  there¬ 
fore  suggest  that  also  for  people  who  are  asking  the  fairies  for 
good  gifts  to  their  children. 

The  fourth  child  will  be  apt  to  wish  to  go  to  school  when 
the  three  older  children  go.  The  mother  will  not  object  if  the 
school  be  unscientific,  happy-go-lucky,  and  simply  a  place  where 
a  good-natured  girl  of  twenty  keeps  thirty  children  reasonably 
happy  for  three  hours  in  the  morning  and  two  in  the  afternoon. 
To  such  a  school,  miscalled  a  dame  school  by  writers  now,  I 
went  or  was  led,  willingly  enough,  for  four  years.  I  remember 
four  realities  there.  One  was  the  flickering  of  motes  of  dust  in 
the  sunbeams,  when  the  shutters  were  closed — curtains  there  were 
none  in  those  primeval  days.  My  observations  then  have  as¬ 
sisted  me  in  following  out  Mr.  Tyndall’s  since.  One  was  the 
method  of  making  sand-pies  on  the  floor.  One  was  the  first 
page  of  the  Hew  York  Primer — and  I  wish  I  had  the  book  now. 
The  fourth  was  sitting  in  a  yellow  chair  in  the  middle  of  the 
school-room,  reading  an  interesting  book.  I  was  quite  absorbed 
in  the  book  when  Abel  Fullum  came  for  me.  Abel  FuUum 
was  the  “  hired  man,”  who  was  then,  in  1826,  in  my  father’s 
employ,  and  who  now,  in  1886,  kindly  oversees  my  daily  duties, 
lest  I  should  go  far  astray.  He  accompanied  us  to  and  from 
school  four  times  a  day,  the  distance  being  too  great  for  inex- 
‘perienced  feet.  “  Doctor,”  said  Fullum  to  me,  when  we  were 
well  in  the  street,  “  what-ure-been  doin’  that  was  naughty  ?  ”  I 
said  I  had  done  nothing  wrong.  But  Fullum  assured  me  I  had, 
and  that  no  one  ever  was  placed  in  that  yellow  chair  who  had 
not  been  naughty.  This  I  then  remembered  to  be  true.  But 
it  had  not  crossed  my  mind  before.  Hor  do  I  now  know,  nor 
have  I  ever  known,  from  that  time  to  this,  why  I  was  thus 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


punislied.  I  did  not  then  know,  bnt  hj  accident,  that  I  was 
punished.  It  is  not  the  only  time,  I  believe,  when  I  have 
wounded  my  friends  without  meaning  to  and  without  knowing 
it,  and  have  borne  their  wrath  with  equanimity  from  sheer 
ignorance  that  they  were  displeased,  for  which  I  now  apologize 
to  them.  And  I  mention  the  anecdote  by  way  of  suggesting  to 
teachers  that  it  is  well  for  them  to  tell  children  why  they  punish 
them,  if,  by  good  luck,  they  know  themselves. 

From  this  school  I  went  at  five  to  another  school  kept  by 
a  man.  I  went  because  it  seemed  best  that  I  should  go 
to  a  man’s  school,  not  because  I  had  learned  all  that  Miss 
Susan  Whitney  knew.  Sweet  saint,  she  died,  honored  of  all 
men,  not  long  since,  and  now  is  in  a  world  where  they  do  not 
need  to  learn  or  teach  the  letters.  By  great  good  fortune,  a 
young  man  whom  I  will  call  Simple  had  come  to  town  after 
graduating  at  the  college  where  a  friend  of  my  father  was  educated. 
This  friend  had  a  son  named  Edward,  who  was  a  crony  of  mine 
at  the  dame  school.  His  father  had  Simple  to  take  care  of, 
and  Simple  had  opened  a  boys’  school.  To  this  school  my  friend 
and  I  were  sent,  he  a  few  days  before  me.  I  wondered,  in  my 
boyhood,  why  my  father,  who  was  the  most  sensible  man  I  ever 
knew — indeed  the  only  thoroughly  sensible  man  I  ever  heard 
of  except  Ben.  Franklin  and  two  other  men  who  shall  not 
be  named  here  now  —  why,  I  say,  he  sent  me  to  Simple’s 
school.  But  I  found  out,  long  since.  He  had  tried  other  schools 
for  my  older  brother.  He  knew  the  tomfoolery  of  the  Lancas¬ 
trian  system  then  in  vogue,  and  the  kindred  tomfoolery  of  the 
martinet  systems,  much  in  vogue  since.  Having  found  Simple, 
he  found  what  he  wanted — a  good-natured,  innocent  fellow,  who 
would  neither  set  the  bay  on  fire  nor  want  to,  who  could  and 
would  keep  us  out  of  mischief  for  five  or  six  hours  a  day,  and 
would  never  send  us  home  mad  with  rage,  or  injustice,  or  ambi¬ 
tion.  A  feather-pillow  sort  of  man  Simple  was.  I  have  been 
sorry  to  know  since  that  his  last  days  were  not  comfortable.  For 
I  owed  him  much,  that  he  never  nagged  me,  nor  drove  me,  never 
punished  me  but  once,  and  then  I  was  probably  in  the  wrong, 
though  again  I  do  not  know,  “  no  more  nor  the  dead,”  as  the 
vernacular  says,  what  I  was  punished  for.  Possibly  I  gained 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


under  his  care  a  happy  scorn  and  contempt  for  all  the  mechan¬ 
ism  of  schools,  which  I  have  kept  until  this  day.  Sometimes  he 
would  be  “tardy  ”  himself.  I  remember  marshaling  all  the 
boys  in  their  seats,  and  having  one  class  out  to  recite,  so  that 
I  might  shame  him  when  he  came  after  dinner.  But  it  made 
little  difference  whether  he  were  there  or  no.  I  owe  him  one 
thing,  that  he  or  my  older  brother  taught  me  “  vulgar  fractions  ” 
well,  £0  that  I  have  ever  since  been  fond  of  mathematics. 
That  same  brother  used  to  say,  what  I  think  is  true,  that  when 
any  one  says  he  is  not  “fond  of  mathematics,”  he  means  that  he 
was  not  properly  taught  vulgar  fractions  and  the  rule  of  three. 
For  the  rest,  I  was  put  on  my  Latin  paradigms  when  I  was  six 
years  old,  and  learned  them  reasonably  well  We  limped 
through  a  Latin  version  of  Eobinson  Crusoe  when  I  was  eight 
years  old.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  the  Latin  language,  as  a  lan¬ 
guage,  till  I  went  to  the  Boston  Latin  School. 

I  cannot  remember  the  time  when  I  could  not  read  as  well  as 
I  can  now.  This  is  saying  very  little,  if  I  may  judge  from  what 
the  teachers  of  Elocution  tell  me,  who  call  on  me  every  now  and 
then,  asking  permission  to  improve  my  cacology.  But  I  now 
read  well  enough  to  understand  the  simpler  parts  of  the  Bible, 
and  such  passages  of  the  newspapers  as  are  meant  to  be  intelli¬ 
gible.  And,  to  answer  the  question  of  The  Fokum,  “  what  came  ” 
of  my  education  of  the  first  seven  or  eight  years,  I  should  say 
that  this  ability  to  read  was  one  thing,  a  thorough  fondness  of 
arithmetic  was  another,  a  decided  indifference  to  school-rank, 
as  something  of  no  great  consequence,  was  another.  I  had,  all 
along,  a  very  decided  feeling  that  I  comprehended  the  position 
as  well  as  the  master  did,  and  that  it  was  as  fitting  that  he  should 
consult  me,  as  I  him.  But  I  do  not  think  that  this  was  any 
peculiarity  of  mine.  It  belongs  to  what  the  orthodox  call  the 
depravity  of  human  nature,  what  Artemus  Ward  calls  “abso¬ 
lute  cussedness,”  and  what  Dr.  Ohanning  calls  man’s  conscious¬ 
ness  of  the  Divinity  within  hijn. 

I  was  nine  years  old  when  I  was  transferred  to  a  Public 
School  And  if  anybody  is  reading  this  gossip  for  my  advice, 
it  would  be  simply  this  :  If  you  are  an  American,  send  your  boy 
to  a  Public  School.  When  I  sometimes  meet  an  American  who 


\ 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 

does  not  seem  to  me  to  understand  liis  own  country,  because  be 
does  not  understand  bis  own  countrymen,  I  always  suspect  tbat 
be  never  bad  tbe  great  privilege  of  associating  with  tbe  other 
boys  of  bis  town  and  bis  time  at  a  public  school.  Of  course,  this 
advice  is  wholly  different  from  tbe  advice  which  tbe  same  words 
would  give  in  England.  Tbe  Public  School  there  is  a  school 
of  one  social  class,  as  most  private  schools  are  with  us. 

Tbe  school  I  was  sent  to  was  tbe  Latin  School  of  Boston, 
tbe  oldest  school  in  America.  It  was  tbe  school  of  Ben. 
Franklin,  of  both  Adamses,  of  John  Hancock,  and  in  later  times 
of  Everett,  of  Sumner,  and  Wendell  Phillips.  We  are  all  proud 
of  it  in  Boston.  In  my  day  it  was  under  the  admirable  care  of 
Mr.  Dillaway,  the  same  who  is  well  known  to  teachers  by  his 
good  editions  of  Latin  text-books. 

I  came  home  from  this  school  at  the  end  of  the  first  month, 
with  a  report  which  showed  that  I  was  ninth  in  a  class  of  fifteen. 
That  is  about  the  average  rank  which  I  generally  had.  I  showed 
it  to  my  mother,  because  I  had  to.  I  thought  she  would  not  like 
it.  To  my  great  surprise  and  relief,  she  said  it  was  a  very  good 
report.  I  said  I  thought  she  would  be  displeased  because  I  was 
so  low  in  the  class.  “  Oh,”  she  said,  “  that  is  no  matter.  Prob¬ 
ably  the  other  boys  are  brighter  than  you.  Grod  made  them  so, 
and  you  cannot  help  that.  But  the  report  says  you  are  among 
the  boys  who  behave  well.  That  you  can  see  to,  and  that  is 
all  I  care  about.”  The  truth  was,  that  at  the  end  of  the  report 
there  was  a  sort  of  sub-report  of  “Bank  as  regards  conduct 
alone,”  as  if  conduct  alone  were  not  the  most  important  affair  in 
earth  or  heaven. 

It  was  spoken  of  as  an  insignificant  and  mean  affair,  some¬ 
what  as  the  orthodox  pulpit  used  to  speak  of  “  mere  morals,”  as 
if  mere  morals  were  some  low  trade  a  man  engaged  in.  The  boys 
never  cared  for  this  “  conduct  alone  ”  report,  nor  the  masters,  as 
far  as  I  saw.  But  if  my  people  did  at  home,  that  was  enough 
for  me.  And  from  that  moment,  till  I  left  college,  I  was  com¬ 
fortably  indifferent  as  to  school-rank  or  college-rank,  regarding 
which,  as  has  been  said,  I  had  formed  my  own  opinion  before. 

I  had  four  useful  years  at  that  school  I  was  growing  fast, 
physically,  and  I  remember  two  summers  when  I  was  taken  out 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


of  scliool,  and  read  tlie  books  at  borne.  That  is  an  excellent  plan, 
when  a  boy  is  growing  fast.  He  soon  finds  out  that  he  can  do 
twice  as  much  in  the  same  time  at  home  as  he  ever  does  at 
school.  But  it  would  be  a  very  poor  plan  to  have  him  at  home 
so  much  that  he  did  not  know  “  the  other  fellows.”  I  remember 
where  I  sat  at  school,  and  how  the  room  seemed  glorified  to  me, 
when,  after  I  had  been  studying  Latin  three  years,  a  gentleman 
named  Streeter  explained  to  me  what  was  meant  by  certain  verbs 
“  governing  ”  the  accusative  and  genitive.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  Simple  that  it  was  of  any  consequence  that  I  should  know 
what  this  meant.  Francis  Gardner  taught  me  Greek  from  the 
beginning.  He  was,  in  Boston,  a  distinguished  man  for  nearly 
fifty  years.  It  is  a  privilege  to  have  learned  Greek  with  such 
a  man.  I  know  it  better  than  I  know  Latin  now,  and  this  is 
partly  because  he  taught  me.  But  it  is,  I  suppose,  an  easier 
language. 

In  the  years  between  1832  and  1852  the  real  system  of  in¬ 
struction  by  popular  lectures  was  at  its  best  in  Hew  England. 
The  present  system  of  entertainment  by  lectures  is  wholly  differ¬ 
ent.  As  boys,  we  learned  a  great  deal  at  evening  lectures,  and 
spent  our  evenings  in  winter  very  profitably.  I  see  no  such 
opportunities  now,  and  I  fancy  that  bright  boys  now  learn  from 
books,  what  we  learned  from  men. 

I  was  at  Harvard  College  from  1835  to  1839.  The  men 
whose  names  are  still  well  known  among  my  teachers  there,  were 
Sparks,  both  Wares,  Palfrey,  Channing,  Longfellow,  Pierce, 
Felton,  Lovering,  Bowen,  Mason,  Dana,  Bache,  and,  older  than 
any  of  the  rest  of  them,  dear  old  Francis  Salet.  Josiah  Quincy 
was  President.  A  philologist  did  the  Latin,  and  made  us  hate 
it,  and  we  should  have  hated  him  too,  had  we  not  thought 
of  the  possibilities  of  human  nature,  and  that,  deep  hid  in  him, 
there  must  be  something  divine.  Among  them  all,  I  detested 
Greek  and  Latin,  when  we  left  them  at  the  end  of  the  junior  year, 
and  I  should  never  have  read  a  word  of  either  since,  if  I  could 
help  it,  but  that  I  had  to  teach  them.  Then  I  regained  the 
natural  love  of  them ;  “of  which,”  as  my  great  Master  says,  “in 
its  place.” 

The  Channing  spoken  of  above,  was  Edward  Tyrrel  Chan- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


ning,  and  I  wish  the  exigencies  of  The  Forum  would  permit  me 
to  use  fifty  of  its  pages  in  expression  of  gratitude  to  this  gentle¬ 
man,  and  in  such  explanation  as  I  could  give  of  the  skill  by 
which  he  interested  us  in  the  study  of  English,  and  trained  us  to 
the  use  of  this  noblest  language  yet  known.  I  am  told  that,  now, 
nobody  will  look  over  students’  themes  if  he  can  help  it,  that  it 
is  a  sort  of  drudgery  from  which  a  man  escapes  to  some  duty 
considered  higher  in  grade.  Ah  me !  There  are  hundreds  of 
us  still  knocking  about  who  are  grateful  to  him  that  he  did  not 
think  so.  And  if  the  dear  public  thinks  that  Clarke,  Holmes, 
Dana,  Story,  Lowell,  Higginson,  Frothingham,  Child,  and  Park- 
man  write  good  English,  let  them  be  grateful  to  dear  “ISTed 
Channing,”  who  taught  them  how. 

The  classical  men  made  us  hate  Latin  and  Greek ;  but  the 
mathematical  men  (such men!  Pierce  and  Lovering)  made  us  love 
mathematics,  and  we  shall  always  be  grateful  to  them. 

We  gained  a  great  deal  from  Longfellow.  He  came  to  Cam-  ) 
bridge  in  our  first  year.  He  was  not  so  much  older  than  we  as  to  ' 
be  distant,  was  always  accessible,  friendly,  and  sympathetic.  All 
poor  teachers  let  “  the  book  ”  come  between  them  and  the  pupil. 
Great  teachers  never  do ;  Longfellow  never  did.  When  the  gov¬ 
ernment  acted  like  fools,  as  governments  do  sometimes,  he  always 
smoothed  us  down,  and,  in  general,  kept  us  in  good  temper.  We 
used  to  call  him  “the  Head,”  which  meant,  head  of  the  Modern 
Language  Department.  One  could  then  pick  up  a  decent,  ready 
knowledge  of  the  modern  languages  in  the  course  of  the  four 
years.  Ho  effort  was  made  to  speak  or  write  them,  and  this,  I 
think,  was  wise. 

But  the  good  of  a  college  is  not  in  the  things  which  it  teaches?^^ 
I  believe  the  “Hew  Education  ”  thinks  it  is,  but  that  is  the  mis¬ 
take  of  the  Hew  Education.  The  good  of  a  college  is  to  be  had  | 
from  “  the  fellows  ”  who  are  there,  and  your  associations  with  ' 
them.  With  a  small  circle  of  admirable  friends,  of  whom  this 
world  is  by  no  means  worthy,  and  to  a  less  degree  in  the  vari¬ 
ous  clubs,  even  in  the  much  abused  debating  societies,  I  picked 
up  a  set  of  habits  and  facilities  for  doing  things  one  has  to  do, 
for  which  I  am  very  grateful  to  Harvard  College.  I  disliked  the 
drudgery  of  college  life,  through  and  through.  I  counted  the 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


days  to  the  next  vacation  from  the  beginning  of  every  term,  and 
there  were  then,  alas,  three  terms  in  every  year.  But,  none  the 
less,  I  ought  to  say,  that  I  do  not  believe  that  any  life  outside  of 
a  college  has  been  yet  found  that  will  in  general  do  so  much  for  a 
man  in  helping  him  for  this  business  of  living.  I  could  get  more 
information  out  of  “  Chambers’s  Encyclopaedia,”  which  you  can 
buy  for  ten  dollars,  than  any  man  will  acquire,  as  facts,  by  spend¬ 
ing  four  years  in  any  college.  But  the  business  of  changing  a 
boy  into  a  man,  or,  if  you  please,  changing  an  unlicked  cub  into 
a  well-trained  gentleman,  is,  on  the  whole,  more  simply  and  cer¬ 
tainly  done  in  a  good  college  than  anywhere  else.  So,  as  Nestor 
says,  “  it  seems  to  me.” 

The  Fokum  hardly  expects  me  to  give  my  notions  as  to  the 
best  method  of  educating  a  man  for  the  Christian  ministry.  In 
that  calling,  the  best  and  happiest  thus  far  known  to  men,  I  have 
spent  my  life. 

This  record  of  three  schools  and  a  college,  which,  because  I 
have  been  asked,  I  have  attempted,  is  not  the  record  of  my  edu¬ 
cation.  I  owe  my  education  chiefly  to  my  father,  my  mother, 
and  my  older  brother — none  of  whom  are  now  living.  My  father 
always  took  it  for  granted  that  his  children  were  interested  in 
what  was  worthy  of  interest,  and,  if  he  were  engaged  in  it,  he 
made  us  partakers  of  his  life.  He  introduced  the  railway  system 
into  New  England.  When  I  was  eleven  years  old,  I  held 
his  horse  on  the  salt  marshes  by  Charles  Eiver  while  he  was 
studying  routes,  grades  and  distances.  He  would  come  back  to 
his  “  chaise  ”  and  explain  to  me  the  plans  and  the  necessities,  as 
if  I  had  been  his  equal.  I  doubt  if  I  were  twelve  years  old  when 
he  gave  me  a  scrap  of  French,  in  the  “Journal  des  Debats,”  about 
excavations  in  Assyria,  and  asked  me  to  translate  it  for  his  news¬ 
paper.  He  intrusted  all  of  us  with  delicate  and  difiicult  com¬ 
missions,  while  we  ranked  as  boys.  He  gave  us  his  entire  confi¬ 
dence,  and  never  withdrew  it.  I  remember  coming  to  him  in  a 
rage  at  some  absurdity  of  a  little  man  to  whom  the  college  had 
given  some  authority.  I  wanted  to  leave  the  college  and  be  done 
with  the  whole  crew  of  them.  My  father  showed  me  at  once  that 
he  had  more  respect^ for  my  judgment  than  for  that  of  my  op¬ 
pressor  ;  that  in  human  life  we  all  have  to  deal  with  inferior 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


men,  and  must  not  quarrel  with  that  necessity  ;  and  sent  meback 
to  my  drudgery  well  satisfied  because  I  could  not  lose  his  regard. 
He  made  me  a  man  by  treating  me  as  a  man  should  be  treated. 
\  I  am  sure  that  fathers  cannot  overestimate  the  value  of  such 
\  direction  of  the  education  of  their  sons. 

My  older  brother  was  at  an  early  age  an  accomplished  mathe¬ 
matician,  and  afterward  a  wonderfully  well  read  man ;  indeed 
a  person  of  very  wide  accomplishments,  as  of  a  most  kindly  and 
affectionate  nature.  We  were  forever  together,  in  boyhood  and 
in  college.  I  learned  very  little  where  he  did  not  go  before  me 
and  show  me  the  way.  And  this  I  should  like  to  say  to  any 
puzzled  teacher :  if  you  have  ever  a  pupil  to  whom  you  cannot 
explain  some  mystery  of  arithmetic,  bid  an  older  boy,  on  whom 
you  can  rely,  take  the  little  fellow  into  another  room,  where 
they  can  work  it  out  together.  It  will  be  made  plain. 

After  I  left  college  I  was  an  usher  in  the  Latin  School,  then 
under  the  admirable  lead  of  Mr.  Dixwell.  I  was  a  teacher  of 
Latin  and  Greek  there  for  two  years.  As  I  have  said,  the  nat¬ 
ural  fondness  for  language  then  came  back  on  me,  in  teaching  the 
two  languages  to  amiable  and  bright  boys.  To  some  of  those 
boys,  therefore,  I  owe  all  the  pleasure  which  I  have  ever  since 
derived  from  Latin  and  Greek  literature  —  not  to  my  college 
teachers,  who  made  me  hate  the  languages. 

To  sum  up :  my  experience  with  schools  and  with  the  college 
teaches  me  to  distrust  all  the  mechanisms  of  education.  One 
comes  back  to  Mr.  Emerson’s  word,  “  It  is  little  matter  what  you 
learn,  the  question  is  with  whom  you  learn.”  There  are  teachers 
to  whom  I  am  profoundly  and  eternally  indebted.  Of  all  those 
with  whom  I  have  ever  had  to  do,  I  owe  the  most  to  my  father, 
my  mother,  and  my  older  brother.  Edward  E.  Hale. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Lsr  Pope’s  once  famous  “  Eecollections  of  P.  P.,  Clerk  of  this 
Parisk,”  the  original  materials  for  the  work  are  described  as 
being  contained  in  a  large  manuscript  volume,  which  might 
well  be  lettered,  the  author  says,  “  On  the  Importance  of  a  Man 
to  Himself.”  Every  piece  of  autobiography,  however  slight  or 
indirect,  might  be  classed  under  this  title;  and  perhaps  that 
man  is  fortunate  who  finds,  as  in  the  present  case,  an  editor  who 
consents  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  the  whole  enterpise.  The 
Foeum  desires,  it  seems,  to  obtain  from  a  few  authors  an  honest 
statement  of  their  educational  experience,  good  or  bad,  for  encour¬ 
agement  or  for  warning,  as  the  case  may  be.  H  we  could  truly 
respond  to  this  demand  the  result  would  certainly  be  useful, 
since  the  secret  of  our  success  or  failure  might  thus  be  revealed  ; 
and  even  our  other  work  might  perhaps  assume  a  slightly  in¬ 
creased  value,  because  connected  with  so  frank  a  commentary. 

My  literary  life,  such  as  it  has  been,  affords  no  lesson 
greatly  worth  recording,  unless  it  be  the  facility  with  which  a 
taste  for  books  may  be  transmitted  and  accumulated  from  one 
generation  to  another,  and  then  developed  into  a  life-long  pur¬ 
suit  by  a  literary  environment.  To  go  no  farther  back,  my  pa¬ 
ternal  ancestors  in  America  were  Puritan  clergymen,  who  wrote 
many  books,  a  few  of  which  are  still  quoted;  my  paternal 
grandfather  was  the  supposed  author  of  the  “  Laco  ”  letters, 
which  were  aimed  against  John  Hancock,  and  were  thought  by 
the  zealous  Bostonians  of  their  day  to  rival  Junius ;  my  father 
wrote  several  pamphlets,  and  my  mother  some  children’s  books, 
in  one  or  two  of  which  I  figured ;  my  eldest  brother  wrote  a 
little  book  against  slavery.  All  this  must  surely  have  been 
enough  to  guarantee  a  little  infusion  of  printer’s  ink  into  my 
blood.  Then  as  to  externals ;  my  father,  having  lost  a  moderate 
fortune  by  Jefferson’s  embargo,  came  to  Cambridge  and  became 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Steward — or  as  it  is  now  called  Bursar — of  Harvard  College. 
He  built  a  bouse,  in  which  I  was  born,  at  the  head  of  a  street 
then  called  Professors’  Kow,  because  so  many  professors  lived  on 
it,  but  now  known  as  Kirkland  Street.  This  house  then  stood 
just  outside  of  the  college  grounds,  and  is  now  almost  surrounded 
by  them,  having  the  Lawrence  Scientific  School  close  beside  it 
and  the  Jefferson  Physical  Laboratory  behind.  Soon,  probably, 
it  will  be  ingulfed  and  make  way  for  some  great  academic 
structure,  as  has  been  the  case  with  the  “  gambrel-roofed  house,” 
once  its  next-door  neighbor,  and  the  birthplace  of  Dr.  O.  W. 
Holmes. 

I  was  thus  born  and  cradled  within  the  college  atmosphere,  and 
amid  a  world  of  books  and  bookish  men,  the  list  of  these  last  in¬ 
cluding  many  since  famous,  who  were  familiar  visitors  at  our 
house.  My  small  collection  of  autographs  is  headed  by  a  note  in 
the  exquisite  handwriting  of  Edward  Everett,  inquiring  after  the 
health  of  “the  babe,”  and  offering  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  Everett  to 
send  some  tamarind  water,  I  being  the  unfortunate  infant  for 
whom — or  perhaps  for  whose  mother — that  unpleasing  medica¬ 
ment  was  designed.  My  first  nurse,  if  not  a  poet,  was  the  theme 
of  poetry,  being  one  Eowena  Pratt,  the  wife  of  Longfellow’s 
“  Tillage  Blacksmith and  no  doubt  her  singing  made  the  heart 
of  her  young  charge  rejoice,  as  when  she  sang  in  that  paradise 
to  which  the  poet  has  raised  her.  Later,  I  “  tumbled  about  in  a 
library,”  as  Holmes  recommends,  and  in  the  self-same  library 
where  he  practiced  the  like  gymnastics ;  that  of  his  kind  old 
father,  Dr.  Abiel  Holmes,  whose  grandson,  now  Dr.  C.  W.  Par¬ 
sons,  of  Providence,  was  my  constant  playmate.  At  home 
the  process  could  be  repeated  in  a  comfortable  library  of  Queen 
Anne  literature  in  delightful  little  old-fashioned  editions,  on 
which  I  began  to  browse  as  soon  as  the  period  of  “  Sandford  and 
Merton  ”  and  Mrs.  Edgeworth’s  “  Frank  ”  had  passed. 

It  passed  early,  for  it  was  the  custom  in  those  days  to  teach 
children  to  read,  and  sometimes  to  write,  before  they  were  four 
years  old — a  practice  now  happily  discontinued.  Another  more 
desirable  custom  prevailed  in  the  household,  for  my  mother  read 
aloud  a  great  deal  in  the  evening ;  and  I  thus  became  familiar 
with  Scott’s  novels  as  I  sat  gazing  in  the  fire  or  lay  stretched  in 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


delicious  indolence  upon  tlie  lieartli-rug.  Literature  was  also 
brought  freely  in  from  without.  I  remember  that  Jared  Sparks 
used  to  come  with  whole  portfolios  of  Washington’s  and  Frank¬ 
lin’s  letters — which  he  was  then  editing — and  leave  them  for  the 
household  to  look  over ;  and  I  can  recall  Dr.  Palfrey’s  reading 
Hawthorne’s  “  Eill  from  the  Town  Pump  ”  to  my  mbther,  dur¬ 
ing  a  morning  call,  with  the  assurance  on  his  part  that  the 
author,  then  almost  unknown,  was  worthy  attention.  Judge 
Story,  then  esteemed  the  most  brilliant  of  Americans,  was  some¬ 
times  at  our  house ;  as  was  my  cousin  Henry  Cleveland,  the  in¬ 
timate  friend  of  Sumner,  and  a  most  cultivated  scholar.  Marga¬ 
ret  Fuller  was  there  a  familiar  guest,  and  so  were  the  sisters  of 
Professor  Longfellow,  not  yet  a  citizen  of  Cambridge.  Later, 
Lowell  and  Story  were  my  schoolmates,  though  five  years  older ; 
and  when  to  all  this  early  circle  of  literary  persons  was  added 
the  unconscious  weight  of  academic  influence  behind,  with  all 
the  quaint  bookish  characteristics  of  that  earlier  Cambridge,  it 
will  be  seen  that  merely  to  have  lived  in  such  a  milieu  was  the 
beginning  of  a  literary  training.  This  must  be  my  justification 
for  dwelling  on  items  which  would  otherwise  be  without  interest 
to  any  one  but  myself ;  they  indicate  the  class  of  influences 
which  not  only  made  a  writer  out  of  me,  but  accomplished  a 
similar  result  for  Hedge,  Holmes,  Margaret  Huller,  Lowell  and 
Norton.  No  small  town  in  America  has  given  birth  to  so  many 
professional  authors,  I  believe,  as  Cambridge ;  for  the  Concord 
authors  were  not  generally  natives  of  the  town. 

My  father’s  financial  losses  secured  for  me  a  valuable  combi¬ 
nation  of  circumstances — the  tradition  of  social  refinement  united 
with  the  practice  of  economy.  This  last  point  was  farther  em¬ 
phasized  by  his  death  when  I  was  ten  years  old ;  and  I,  as  the 
youngest  of  a  large  family,  was  left  to  be  brought  up  mainly 
by  women,  and  fortunately  by  those  whom  I  was  accustomed 
to  seeing  treated  with  intellectual  respect  by  prominent  men. 
Their  influence  happily  counteracted  a  part  of  that  received 
from  an  exceedingly  rough  school  to  which  I  was  sent  at  eight 
years  old,  after  a  few  years’  experience  under  a  woman’s  teach¬ 
ing.  The  school  of  which  I  speak  was  kept  by  a  well-educated 
Englishman,  William  Wells,  a  most  painstaking  and  worthy 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


teaclier  and  a  good  classical  scholar — he  having  edited  the  first 
American  edition  of  Cicero — but  one  whose  boarding-school  was 
conducted  essentially  on  the  old  English  plan,  and  was  some¬ 
what  brutalizing  in  its  effect  on  the  boys.  Yet  it  was  then  con¬ 
sidered  the  best  preparatory  school  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bos¬ 
ton,  and  the  children  of  the  most  infiuential  families  in  that  city 
were  sent  to  it.  Being  only  a  day  scholar,  and  walking  a  mile 
each  way,  twice  a  day,  beneath  the  beautiful  trees  which  then 
shaded  Brattle  Street,  I  have  mainly  pleasurable  associations 
with  the  period;  the  more  especially  as,  being  one  of  the  more 
studious  pupils,  I  rarely  felt  the  weight  of  the  birch  which  was 
never  absent  from  Mr.  Wells’s  hand.  In  an  essay  “On  an  old 
Latin  Text  Book  ”  I  have  recorded  some  of  the  enjoyments  of 
that  time. 

At  thirteen  I  entered  Harvard  College,  being  already  very 
tall  for  my  age  and  of  mature  appearance,  with  some  precocity 
of  intellect  and  a  corresponding  immaturity  of  character — an  in¬ 
convenient  combination  which  perplexed  me  till  my  graduation 
at  the  absurdly  early  age  of  seventeen.  It  is  an  odd  coincidence 
that  Mr.  Hale,  who  has  preceded  me  in  this  course,  was  just  two 
years  older,  both  in  years  and  in  date  of  graduation,  each  of  us 
being  the  youngest  in  his  class  and  each  holding  the  same  rank 
in  that  small  body.  We  might  therefore  be  supposed  to  take 
identical  views  of  college  life,  but  this  is  not  quite  the  case ;  I 
perhaps  rating  the  value  of  strict  discipline  higher  than  he  does, 
and  at  any  rate  having  liked  everything  that  was  taught  in  the 
college,  though  often  wishing  for  things  that  were  not  there 
attainable.  But  I  had  the  great  advantage  over  my  predecessor 
in  this  series  that  the  elective  system,  which  in  his  time  only 
covered  the  choice  between  the  different  modern  languages,  was 
extended  during  my  course  to  a  variety  of  studies,  although  the 
experiment  was  only  temporary,  and  was  afterward  unaccount¬ 
ably  withdrawn.  As  to  mathematical  instruction  this  reform  was 
an  especial  benefit,  for  Professor  Peirce’s  genius  reveled  in  the  new 
sensation  of  having  voluntary  pupils,  and  he  gave  a  few  of  us 
his  “  Curves  and  Functions  ”  as  lectures,  with  running  elucida¬ 
tions.  Nothing  could  be  more  stimulating  than  to  see  our 
ardent  instructor,  suddenly  seized  with  a  new  thought  and  for- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED, 


getting  our  very  existence,  work  away  rapidly  witk  the  chalk 
upon  a  wholly  new  series  of  equations  ;  and  then,  when  he  had 
forced  himself  into  the  utmost  corner  of  the  black-board  and 
could  get  no  farther,  to  see  him  come  back  to  earth  with  a  sigh 
and  proceed  with  his  lecture.  We  did  not  know  whither  he  was 
going,  but  that  huddle  of  new  equations  seemed  like  a  sudden 
outlet  from  this  world  and  a  ladder  to  the  stars.  He  gave  a 
charm  to  the  study  of  mathematics  which  for  me  has  never 
waned,  although  the  other  pursuits  of  life  soon  drew  me  from 
that  early  love.  This  I  have  always  regretted,  and  so  did 
Peirce,  who  fancied  that  I  had  some  faculty  that  way,  and  had 
me  put,  when  but  eighteen,  on  a  committee  to  examine  the 
mathematical  classes  of  the  college.  Long  after,  when  I  was 
indicted  for  the  attempted  rescue  of  a  fugitive  slave,  and  the 
prison  walls  seemed  impending,  I  met  him  in  the  street  and  told 
him  that  if  I  were  imprisoned  I  should  have  time  to  read  La 
Place’s  “Mecanique  Celeste.”  “In  that  case,”  said  the  pro¬ 
fessor,  who  abhorred  the  abolitionists,  “I  sincerely  wish  you 
may  be.” 

But  the  elective  system  could  go  no  farther  than  the  studies 
actually  carried  on  in  college,  and  the  range  of  those  studies 
was  then  small  Of  all  the  world  of  modern  science  we  had  but 
a  few  experiments  in  chemistry  or  electricity,  and  a  few  recita¬ 
tions  from  memory  in  Smellie’s  “  Philosophy  of  Natural  History.” 
A  few  of  us  joined  a  voluntary  class  in  entomology  with  Hr. 
Harris ;  and  we  carried  on  for  ourselves  a  natural  history  so¬ 
ciety,  without  guidance  and  in  the  crudest  way.  With  a  strong 
love  for  all  the  natural  sciences,  I  am  sure  that  I  have  perma¬ 
nently  suffered  from  the  want  of  such  systematic  early  training 
as  is  now  accessible  to  every  student.  But  it  was  not  such  as  I 
who  were  the  worst  sufferers — omnivorous  persons,  who  loved 
all  study  and  found  plenty  to  occupy  our  time.  The  real  suf¬ 
ferers  were  those  whose  instinct  led  them  to  the  natural  sciences 
and  to  nothing  else,  who  were  born  observers,  and  went  straight 
to  the  details  of  out-door  knowledge  as  a  bee  goes  to  a  flower. 
One  of  my  class-mates  lately  died  in  Worcester — Bufus  Wood¬ 
ward,  M.H. — who  was,  as  I  have  always  thought,  one  of  the  very 
ablest  men  in  the  class,  yet  stood  near  the  foot  of  it  all  through 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


college  simply  because  be  bad  no  outlet.  In  these  days  be 
could  bardly  bave  failed  to  graduate  with  bigb  honors  in  two  or 
three  scientific  departments ;  and  be  would  at  any  rate  bave  been 
recognized,  stimulated,  trained  and  kept  at  work.  For  want  of  this 
bis  college  life  was  well-nigh  wasted,  perhaps  worse  than  wasted, 
for  it  impaired  the  habit  of  systematic  application ;  and  though 
a  fairly  successful  practicing  physician,  he  remained  always  in 
some  degree  an  amateur  in  the  sciences  of  which  he  might  have 
been  made  a  distinguished  ornament.  He  suffered  more  than 
others,  as  being  a  born  specialist,  but  the  one-sidedness  of  the 
curriculum  hurt  us  all. 

We  all  suffered,  too,  from  the  fact  that  we  were  not  encouraged 
or  even  permitted  to  do  thorough  work  in  anything.  We  lived 
intellectually  from  hand  to  mouth,  or  from  book  to  mouth,  which 
is  worse.  It  was  lamentable  to  see  a  man  like  President  James 
Walker,  who  might  have  grasped  our  young  minds  and  trained 
them  to  explore  the  hard  problems  of  ethics  and  metaphysics, 
obliged  to  sit,  pencil  in  hand,  while  we  recited  the  words  of  the 
book,  he  meanwhile  giving  half  the  power  of  his  fine  intellect  to 
deciding  whether  our  little  performance  should  be  valued  at 
“seven”  marks  or  at  “eight.”  We  had  no  extended  exami¬ 
nations,  obliging  us  to  review  our  whole  knowledge  on  a  given 
subject ;  we  wrote  no  theses,  such  as  now  give  the  student  the 
opportunity,  if  only  for  once  in  his  life,  to  learn  what  real  re¬ 
search  means.  Our  study  of  Latin  and  Oreek  might  or  might 
not  be  accurate,  but  it  was  mainly  grammatical.  Once  or  twice, 
when  the  elective  system  was  first  brought  to  bear  on  us,  the  ac¬ 
complished  Felton  attempted  a  few  lectures  on  Greek  life  and 
mythology,  but  they  were  soon  dropped ;  the  mere  labor  of  call¬ 
ing  up  for  recitation  his  large  class  and  awarding  to  each  the 
little  meed  of  marks  was  quite  enough  for  him.  At  graduation 
I  could  read  simple  Greek  or  Latin  easily  enough,  and  this  was 
something ;  but  of  the  world  of  ancient  art  or  manners  we  all 
knew  little.  I  had  a  useful  lesson  on  this  subject,  not  long 
after  my  graduation,  from  a  lively  young  girl,  whose  training, 
though  briefer,  had  been  more  comprehensive.  We  were  look¬ 
ing  at  some  small  casts  of  Greek  friezes,  and  I  was  kind  enough, 
as  became  a  young  Harvard  alumnus,  to  explain  them  to  her.  I 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


called  her  attention  to  the  graceful  figures  of  the  young  riders  in 
the  bas-relief ;  and  said  how  strange  it  was  that  the  Greeks,  who 
delineated  human  beings  so  well,  should  have  made  their  horses 
so  clumsy — with  such  thick  necks,  I  said.  “But,”  said  she, 
“  did  not  the  Thessalian  horses  have  those  thick  necks  ?  ”  Alas, 
I  did  not  even  know  that  the  Greek  horses  came  from  Thessaly .! 

It  does  not  seem  to  me,  in  looking  back,  that  the  Harvard 
teaching  was  then  as  good  in  any  respect  as  it  is  now,  except 
in  English,  where  I  do  not  see  that  it  could  have  been  much 
bettered  for  working  purposes.  On  the  philological  side,  cer¬ 
tainly,  even  this  was  not  strong — nobody  then  studied  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  Sanskrit — but  as  regarded  sense  and  simplicity  and 
methodical  arrangement,  and  the  supreme  importance  of  having 
something  to  say.  Prof.  Edward  Channing’s  criticism  and  hints 
were  invaluable.  I  suppose  that  to  this  day  I  rarely  write  for 
three  hours  without  half-consciously  recalling  some  caution  or 
suggestion  of  his ;  and  it  is  certainly  a  great  deal  for  a  teacher 
thus  to  impress  himself  upon  a  pupil’s  life.  His  praise  of  one’s 
composition,  even  if  he  named  no  names,  gave  a  thrill  of  de¬ 
light  ;  and  his  reading  of  favorite  passages  from  authors,  even 
if  only  the  citations  from  Campbell’s  “  Ehetoric,”  left  a  lasting 
pleasure.  In  the  department  of  oratory,  which  also  fell  to  him, 
he  was  less  successful ;  and  although  I  have  been,  all  my  life,  a 
public  speaker  as  well  as  a  writer,  I  cannot  recall  any  suggestion 
given,  during  our  course  in  that  branch,  that  ever  helped  me  at 
all ;  unless  it  were  a  few  hints  as  to  variety  of  gesture  from  his 
assistant,  Mr.  E.  H.  Dana.  It  is  my  impression  that  no  man  is 
much  benefited  as  a  speaker  of  his  own  thoughts  by  reciting 
those  of  other  people ;  and  indeed  I  suspect  that  the  orator  is 
almost  as  much  born  as  the  poet,  in  spite  of  Cicero’s  dictum  to 
the  contrary. 

In  saying  that  no  other  department  was  as  well  administered 
as  now,  it  would  not  be  fair  to  ignore  the  debt  we  owed  to  several 
other  teachers.  To  Jared  Sparks,  himself  a  rather  unimagina¬ 
tive  man,  I  owe  the  early  conviction,  confirmed  by  reading  Haw¬ 
thorne,  that  imagination  is  a  desirable  quality  for  an  historian. 
The  teachers  of  modern  languages  did  much  for  us  ;  I  had  fortu¬ 
nately  been  fairly  grounded  in  French,  in  childhood,  by  a  cousin 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


who  had  lived  long  in  Paris;  and  Professor  Longfellow’s  in¬ 
structions  always  had  a  charm,  not  diminished  by  the  eager  in¬ 
terest  inspired  by  his  “  Hyperion,”  and  by  the  proof-sheets  of 
“  Voices  of  the  Kight,”  brought  occasionally  to  the  recitation- 
room  by  the  printer’s  boy.  As  Peirce  had,  as  it  were,  shown  us 
science  in  the  making,  so  this  was  literature  in  the  making.  It 
was  an  advantage  also  to  read  Dante  with  a  cultivated  Italian 
exile,  Pietro  Bachi,  whose  vigorous  accent  made  the  strong  lines 
impressive;  and  for  Spanish  we  had  delightful  old  Francisco 
Sales,  whose  powdered  hair  and  pigtail  seemed  a  perpetual  scene 
from  “  Gil  Bias.”  German  was  not  then  so  much  sought  for  as 
now,  and  I,  unfortunately,  did  not  study  it  until  after  leaving 
college. 

The  influence  of  feminine  society  was  of  course  an  essential 
part  of  one’s  college  education ;  and  all  this  was  then  very  at¬ 
tractive  and  simple  in  the  little  village,  where  the  large  influx  of 
Southern  law-students  just  then  gave  much  vivacity  to  social 
intercourse.  A  world  of  new  poetry  and  literature  was  more¬ 
over  just  beginning  ;  Tennyson’s  thin  early  volumes  were  being 
handed  about  and  seemed  to  bring  a  richer  coloring  into  the  uni¬ 
verse  ;  Carlyle  was  talked  of  in  the  evening  by  my  elder  brothers, 
and  one  day  the  fresh  wit  and  wisdom  of  “  Pickwick  ”  came  to 
delight  us  all,  when  my  mother  read  it  aloud.  “  The  Dial  ”  was 
seen  in  the  house  sometimes,  as  my  cousin,  William  Henry  Chan- 
ning,  was  one  of  the  contributors.  Emerson  had  often  lectured 
in  Cambridge,  and  his  first  volume  of  essays  had  just  appeared. 
This  was  given  to  me  by  my  mother,  and  was  read  as  I  never  had 
read  any  other  book,  I  having  been  first  led  to  it  by  my  friend, 
Levi  Lincoln  Thaxter,  since  well-known  in  this  vicinity  as  an 
interpreter  of  Browning.  He  introduced  me  also  to  Hazlitt,  then 
a  favorite  with  young  men  of  literary  tastes ;  we  read  Percy’s 
“  Eeliques  of  Ancient  Poetry  ”  together,  and  had  a  common  faith 
in  the  dawning  genius  of  Lowell,  whose  “Year’s  Life”  had  just 
appeared. 

I  graduated  at  about  the  time  when  young  men  now  enter  col¬ 
lege — seventeen  and  a  half  years ;  and  spent  two  years  in  teach¬ 
ing  before  I  came  back  for  post-graduate  studies  to  Cambridge. 
Those  two  years  were  perhaps  the  most  important  in  my  life. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Most  of  them  were  passed  in  the  family  of  a  cousin,  the  late 
Stephen  Higginson  Perkins,  of  Brookline,  where  I  taught  his 
three  fine  hoys,  of  one  of  whom  I  afterward  wrote  a  memoir 
in  the  “  Harvard  Memorial  Biographies.”  All  my  experience 
of  college  instructors  had  given  me  no  such  personal  influence 
as  that  of  my  cousin,  and  it  so  fell  in  with  the  tendencies  of- 
that  seething  period — the  epoch  of  Brook  Farm,  of  receding 
Transcendentalism,  of  dawning  Fourierism — that  it  simply  devel¬ 
oped  more  methodically  what  would  probably  have  come  at  any 
rate.  My  cousin  was  bom  an  artist  and  bred  a  merchant ;  he 
was  an  Athenian  in  his  love  of  beauty,  and  a  Spartan  in  personal 
habits ;  lived  with  the  greatest  frugality,  yet  would  have  a  pri¬ 
vate  tutor  for  his  boys ;  took  care  of  his  own  horse  and  stable 
and  furnace,  yet  had  bought  and  kept  two  or  three  of  the  most 
costly  paintings  then  to  be  found  near  Boston — a  Yandervelde, 
a  Joshua  Eeynolds,  and  a  fine  oil  copy  of  the  Sistine  Madonna 
by  Moritz  Eetzch.  With  this  last  my  own  glimpses  into  the 
world  of  art  began,  and  I  wrote  at  nineteen  some  verses  about 
it  which  Professor  Longfellow  did  me  the  honor  to  reprint  in  his 
“  Estray.”  These  pictures  Stephen  Perkins  bequeathed  to  the 
Boston  Art  Museum.  When  I  came  to  him  I  had  begun  the 
study  of  the  law  and  all  my  ambition  lay  that  way  ;  but  his  un¬ 
conscious  attrition,  combined  with  the  prevailing  tendencies  of 
the  time,  turned  me  from  that  pursuit  and  from  all  “  bread- 
studies,”  as  they  used  then  to  be  called,  toward  literature  and 
humanitarian  interests. 

Stephen  Perkins  belonged  to  a  type  of  merchants  created  by 
the  East  India  trade,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  extinguished  with 
it.  He  had  spent  his  boyhood  at  school  in  Germany  and  his 
youth  in  the  East  Indies.  He  had  thus  had  a  cosmopolitan  life, 
and  had  been,  during  long  voyages,  an  immense  reader  of  English, 
French  and  German,  while  he  knew  nothing  of  the  classics.  He 
was  also  an  ardent  admirer  of  Carlyle,  whose  direct  influence 
upon  myseK  had  been  very  much  less,  since  Emerson  had  done 
for  me  what  Carlyle  did  for  others.  It  happened  that  a  lady 
who  lived  near  us  in  Brookline,  Mrs.  Thomas  Lee,  had  just 
written  a  “  Life  ”  of  Jean  Paul  Eichter,  and  this  was  for  me  an 
epoch-making  book.  In  this  and  in  his  “Fruit,  Flower  and 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Thorn-Pieces,”  reprinted  soon  after  in  an  English  version,  I 
found  a  picture  of  what  would  now  be  called  “  plain  living  and 
high  thinking,”  which  converted  me  forever,  and  made  it  seem 
easy  to  make  sacrifices  in  order  to  pursue  one’s  own  studies  and 
live  one’s  own  life.  Mrs.  Child’s  “Letters  from  New  York”  also 
had  an  influence  in  the  same  direction.  Then  came  the  “  Social 
Reform”  conventions  which  preceded  Fourierism,  and  of  which 
the  inspiring  spirit  was  another  cousin,  already  mentioned, 
William  Henry  Channing.  Already,  before  leaving  college,  I 
had  felt  a  great  desire  to  ally  myself  with  all  classes  of  people 
and  see  with  their  eyes  ;  and  with  this  came  a  Quixotic  purpose, 
possibly  imbibed  with  the  milk  of  good  Rowena  Pratt,  of  giv¬ 
ing  a  year  to  the  blacksmith’s  trade  for  this  sole  purpose.  I 
have  often  regretted  that  the  project  went  no  farther.  Undoubt¬ 
edly  the  literary  man  works,  on  the  whole,  harder  than  the 
mechanic ;  but  I  should  like  to  have  known  for  a  few  months 
the  sensation  of  earning  the  day’s  wages  by  the  labor  of  the 
hands ;  and  to  have  penetrated  personally  behind  that  perplex¬ 
ing  door  of  non-communication  which  separates,  after  all,  the  life 
of  the  mechanic  from  that  of  the  professional  man. 

I  came  back  to  Cambridge  expecting  to  fit  myself  for  some 
professorship  in  philology,  or  metaphysics,  or  natural  science. 
Not  knowing  exactly  what  the  result  would  be,  I  devoted  two 
happy  years  to  an  immense  diversity  of  reading,  in  which  Ger¬ 
man  literature  on  the  whole  predominated — I  having  learned 
something  of  that  language  by  a  process  of  self -teaching,  intro¬ 
duced  by  a  learned  German  who,  about  this  time,  was  lecturing  in 
Boston — Dr.  Charles  Kraitser.  Moved  by  him  I  made  my  way, 
through  sheer  reading  and  dictionary  work,  with  small  regard 
for  Ollendorff,  and  dabbled  in  other  cognate  languages — Dutch, 
Danish,  Swedish — at  the  same  time ;  even  beginning  the  transla¬ 
tion  of  Tegner’s  “Frithiof’s  Saga,”  and  of  a  novel  by  Frederica 
Bremer.  So  far  as  the  thorough  knowledge  of  any  language  went, 
it  was  all  a  mistake,  but  it  was  very  pleasant ;  and  I  am  firm 
in  the  opinion  that  it  is  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man  naturally 
studious  to  have  a  year  or  two  of  intellectual  wild-oats,  when  he 
reads  just  what  he  pleases,  with  none  to  molest  him  or  make  him 
afraid.  Circumstances  and  certain  influences  drew  me  at  last 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


aside  to  tlie  liberal  ministry;  a  thing  which  I  have  never 
regretted,  though  it  occupied  me  only  temporarily,  and  I  gravi¬ 
tated  back  to  literature  at  last. 

There  were  some  students  of  marked  attainments  and  in¬ 
fluence  at  Cambridge  during  this  time,  especially  Edward 
Tuckerman,  now  Professor  at  Amherst  College,  an  enthusiast  in 
botany  and  Coleridge ;  with  him  I  took  long  walks,  and  tried  to 
comprehend  lichens  and  the  “Aids  to  Eeflection.”  At  this  time, 
also,  the  Anti-Slavery  Eeform  took  hold  of  me,  as  of  many  others, 
and  was  itself  a  liberal  training  ;  nor  do  I  see  where  the  young 
students  of  the  present  day  can  encounter  any  such  group  of 
strong  and  heroic  men  as  were  our  instructors  there.  Two  years 
of  this  desultory  life  and  two  years  of  more  systematic  work  in 
the  Theological  School  were  all  that  was  left  for  me  of  academical 
existence.  This  was  my  so-called  education  ;  but  when  I  finally 
parted  company  with  the  University,  I  had  made  the  discovery 
that  my  education  was  just  beginning,  and  I  have  ever  since 
been  trying  to  carry  it  along.  Perhaps  this  was  an  adequate  re¬ 
sult  for  twenty-three  and  a  half  years  of  life.  With  an  omnis¬ 
cient  adviser  at  my  elbow,  it  might  probably  have  been  bettered ; 
but  no  such  person  was  at  that  time  accessible  in  Harvard  Uni¬ 
versity,  nor  can  I  see  that  he  has  since  been  developed  there  or 
elsewhere. 

The  key-note  of  that  early  life  was  best  struck  for  me  in  a 
phrase  used  by  Emerson  in  his  “  Man  the  Eeformer “Better 
that  the  book  should  not  be  quite  so  good  and  the  book-maker 
himself  abler  and  better  ;  and  not  himself  often  a  ludicrous  con¬ 
trast  to  all  he  has  written.”  It  is  a  phrase  that  possibly  needs  to 
be  kept  before  us  in  this  age  of  multiplying  specialists  ;  and  it  is 
after  all  only  an  amplification  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney’s  terse  aphor¬ 
ism  in  the  “  Defence  of  Poesie  “  The  ending  end  of  all  earthly 
learning  being  virtuous  action.” 


Thomas  Wentwokth  Higginson. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


“Next,”  is  the  order  which  I  hear  from  the  Editor  of  The 
Fokum  ;  and  I  rise  with  a  diffidence  naturally  engendered  by 
doubt  of  my  title  to  a  place  on  his  select  roster  of  battered  veter¬ 
ans  in  life’s  difficult  struggle.  But  if  to  be  a  veteran  and  to  be 
battered  constitute  a  sufficient  justification  of  my  nomination  to 
such  a  distinction,  I  will  not  shrink  from  the  honor  bestowed  on 
me. 

That  particular  one  of  these  veterans  by  whom  this  series  was 
inaugurated  modestly  accounted  for  the  conspicuousness  of  his 
position  by  ascribing  it  to  a  consideration  such  as  led  the  Indian 
commander  to  send  forward  a  little  elephant  to  pioneer  a  risky 
passage.  To  his  successors  this  seems  a  little  as  if  Jumbo,  in 
heading  a  procession  of  “the  greatest  show  on  earth”  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  were  to  remark  casually  to  the  admiring  crowds  on  the 
sidewalks,  “Don’t  mind  me,  I’m  only  a  small  pattern;  look  at  that 
long  row  of  big  elephants  behind  me.”  As  for  myself  I  can 
hardly  claim  to  be  an  elephant  at  all ;  for  when  I  ask  myself  the 
question  “  How  was  I  educated  ?  ”  there  immediately  arises  the 
embarrassing  counter-question,  “  Was  I  in  fact  ever  educated  at 
all  ?  ”  If  by  education  is  meant  a  result  of  influences  exerted  by 
other  minds  acting  on  and  giving  shape  to  my  own,  I  should  find 
it  difficult  to  point  out  when,  where,  and  to  what  extent  such 
influences  had  produced  their  effect  upon  me.  Not  that  I  have 
not  had  teachers  enough.  I  have  had  probably  more  than  my 
share ;  but  their  personal  relations  to  me,  as  I  recall  them,  seem 
to  have  consisted  chiefly  in  “  setting  ”  me  lessons,  in  listening  to 
my  recitations  (generally  verhatim  repetitions  of  a  text),  correct¬ 
ing  my  blunders  (that  is  to  say,  giving  me  the  right  word  when 
I  used  the  wrong  one),  and  telling  me  I  had  “better  mind”  when 
I  was  restless  or  disorderly. 

But  though  I  am  unable  to  tell  distinctly  how  I  was  edu- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


cated,  I  find  no  difficulty  in  giving  an  account  of  the  attempts 
which,  were  made  to  educate  me.  It  was  in  the  district  school  of 
my  native  village  that  I  underwent  my  first  scholastic  experi¬ 
ence.  I  was  about  three  years  of  age,  possibly  a  few  months 
older,  when  my  tuition  began,  and  I  was  conducted  to  the  school 
by  my  sister,  two  years  my  senior,  who  had  been  earlier  matric¬ 
ulated  in  this  institution.  I  had  but  one  sister — my  senior  as 
just  mentioned — and  one  brother  also,  my  junior,  so  that  I  had 
taken  by  anticipation  the  very  judicious  advice  of  Dr.  Hale,  and 
had  been  “born  in  the  middle  of  a  family.”  I  found  in  this 
school  some  sixty  or  seventy  children  of  both  sexes  and  of  all 
ages  up  to  eighteen  or  twenty,  but  I  did  not  understand  what 
they  were  all  there  for,  and  the  scholastic  exercises  puzzled  me. 
When  the  reading  classes  stood  up  and  made  a  botch  of  it,  I 
wondered  why  they  could  not  read.  I  could  read  before  I  went 
to  school.  How  it  happened  I  did  not  know.  I  supposed  it  was 
natural  to  do  so.  Probably  I  acquired  the  ability  from  the  same 
source  from  which  I  derived  almost  everything  else  in  me  that  is 
good  (if  there  is  any  such  thing),  from  my  mother’s  careful  teach¬ 
ing.  I  did  not  like  school.  There  was  but  one  pleasing  incident 
in  the  oppressive  three-hour  session ;  it  was  when  the  glad  an¬ 
nouncement  from  the  master  was  heard,  “  The  boys  may  go  out 
to  play.” 

I  was  not  long  in  the  district  school.  When  I  had  reached 
the  age  of  about  four  years  there  was  opened  in  our  village  what 
was  called  a  Grrammar  School,  conducted  by  a  young  graduate  of 
Williams  College  of  singular  ability  and  unusual  attainments, 
who  later  in  life  achieved  a  brilliant  reputation,  and  became  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  pulpit  orators  in  Boston  and  afterwards 
in  Hew  York,  the  Eev.  Orville  Dewey.  I  was  not  sufficiently  ad¬ 
vanced  in  age  to  be  introduced  to  the  high  curriculum  of  the 
Grammar  School,  but  it  seemed  to  be  the  proper  place  for  my 
sister,  and  I  was  sent  along  with  her,  to  keep  me  out  of  mischief, 
I  suppose.  I  was  not  required  to  study  anything,  but  some 
things  which  I  heard  there  interested  me,  especially  Mr.  Dewey’s 
prelections  to  his  class  in  geography. 

When  I  had  reached  the  mature  age  of  six  years,  it  seemed 
meet  to  my  father  that  I  should  be  introduced  to  the  study  of 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


the  humanities.  To  this  end  he  made  arrangements  with  the 
clergyman  of  our  village  to  instruct  me  in  the  rudiments  of  the 
Latin  tongue.  I  became  one  of  the  select  class  which  that  rever¬ 
end  worthy  had  consented  to  receive  as  day-scholars  into  his 
house.  What  I  was  expected  to  study  at  this  time  was  the  Latin 
grammar  and  the  reading  book  for  beginners  then  in  vogue,  en¬ 
titled  “  Corderii  Colloquia.”  But  the  spirit  of  study  was  not  in 
me  nor  in  any  of  us.  We  idled  away  our  time,  the  teacher  was 
careless  and  inattentive,  and  after  a  few  months  of  trial  the 
scheme  broke  down.  I  was  then  placed  under  the  tuition  of  a 
private  tutor.  My  father,  being  by  profession  a  lawyer,  had 
usually  one  or  more  students  reading  in  his  office ;  and  one  of 
these  was  rash  enough  to  take  in  hand  a  pupil  in  whose  ante¬ 
cedents  there  was  so  little  to  encourage.  Then  ensued  a  year  or 
two  of  the  most  trying  experience  of  my  life — a  period  equally 
painful,  I  presume,  to  torturer  and  victim — in  which  my  tutor 
was  resolved  that  I  should  learn  Latin,  and  I  was  equally  resolved 
that  I  would  not ;  but  the  result  naturally  was  that  the  stronger 
will  prevailed,  and  that,  when  the  struggle  was  over,  I  knew  the 
whole  grammar  from  beginning  to  end,  rules  and  exceptions, 
Etymology,  Syntax  and  Prosody,  word  for  word,  by  heart.  But 
I  did  not  understand  a  syllable  of  it ;  and  so,  in  order  to  facilitate 
fixing  the  sentences  in  my  mind,  I  used  to  break  them  up  into 
little  bits  or  versicles,  which  I  could  balance  against  each  other  in 
a  kind  of  chant,  thus:  “Yerbal  adjectives  |  or  such  as  signify  | 
affections  of  the  mind  |  govern  the  genitive.”  I  had,  however,  at 
this  time  a  better  reading-book  than  before ;  so  good  a  one  that 
I  wish  I  could  see  it  again.  It  was  “  Earrand’s  Course  of  Latin 
Study,”  a  book  long  since  lost  to  human  sight,  but  in  which  the 
substance  of  the  lessons  was  so  entertaining  as  to  reconcile  me  in 
the  end  to  the  language  in  which  they  were  written. 

While  my  scholastic  education  was  thus  proceeding  I  was 
undergoing  a  rather  unsystematic  but  very  beneficial  species  of 
mental  culture  derived  from  reading.  From  my  earliest  years  I 
had  a  passion  for  books;  and,  though  juvenile  literature  had 
little  to  boast  of  in  those  days,  such  as  there  was  I  gathered  as  I 
could  and  carefully  treasured  up.  My  library  embraced  a  rather 
curious  miscellany,  ranging  from  the  “Melodies  of  Mother 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Goose”  up  to  “Eobinson  Crusoe”  and  the  “Pilgrim’s  Progress.” 
But  I  very  early  became  familiar  with,  and  formed  a  taste  for  an 
order  of  literature  much  superior  to  this.  My  father  himself  put 
Shakespeare  into  my  hands  before  I  was  six  years  old.  I  greatly 
enjoyed  the  comedies,  but  the  tragedies  and  the  historical  dramas 
were  for  the  time  above  my  level.  My  mother  also,  who  was  a 
passionate  reader,  intoduced  me  to  Cowper,  Burns,  Goldsmith, 
Campbell,  Scott,  and  Byron,  among  the  poets,  and  to  Addison, 
Johnson,  Burke,  Eobertson,  and  others  among  the  prose  writers. 
I  read  also  with  great  interest  “Eollin’s  Ancient  History.”  Yoy- 
ages  and  travels  were,  however,  my  special  delight,  and  the  book 
of  this  class  which  afforded  me  the  greatest  gratification  was  the 
narrative  published  by  Professor  Silliman  of  his  journeyings 
through  England,  Holland  and  Scotland  in  1805  and  1806.  This 
took  so  strong  a  hold  upon  my  imagination  that  it  became  the 
most  earnest  desire  of  my  life  to  see  and  know  the  author.  And 
I  was  troubled  with  the  painful  apprehension  that,  before  I 
should  be  mature  enough  to  gain  admission  to  college,  this  fasci¬ 
nating  writer  might  have  passed  off  the  stage.  How  needless 
was  this  concern  appears  in  the  fact  that  Professor  Silliman  sur¬ 
vived  my  graduation  by  more  than  thirty-six  years.  During  the 
first  ten  years  of  my  life  I  profited  by  this  general  though  desul¬ 
tory  reading  more  than  by  all  the  efforts  of  all  my  instructors. 

Another  incitement  to  mental  activity  extremely  beneficial 
educationally,  though  unconnected  with  schools,  was  a  propensity 
early  felt  but  which  has  followed  me  through  life,  to  engage  in 
the  construction  of  mechanical  contrivances  of  one  sort  or  an¬ 
other.  Among  the  achievements  of  my  boyhood  were  wind¬ 
mills,  water-mills,  fanning-mills,  trip-hammers,  sleds,  barrows, 
kites  and  cross-bows ;  and  generally  all  those  quarters  of  the 
house  which  were  frequented  by  me  were  littered  with  these 
things. 

At  the  age  of  nine  years  I  went  to  reside  with  my  maternal 
grandfather,  who  had  then  recently  taken  up  his  residence  in 
the  village  of  Saratoga  Springs ;  and  I  became  there  consequently 
a  pupil  in  a  school  of  some  pretensions  called  the  Saratoga 
Academy.  In  this  school  I  began  to  take  some  interest  in  Latin, 
and  read  through  the  “  ^neid  ”  and  the  “  Georgies  ”  of  Yirgil. 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


A  copy  of  “  Davidson’s  Yirgil  ”  with,  an  English  prose  transla¬ 
tion  having  fallen  into  my  hands,  I  found  the  story  so  fascina¬ 
ting  that  I  read  it  entirely  through  before  I  had  completed  the 
first  book  of  the  original.  I  read  also  seven  or  eight  of  Cicero’s 
Orations,  including  the  four  against  Cataline,  and  those  in  behalf 
of  Milo,  Cluentius,  the  poet  Archias,  and  the  Manilian  law. 

Here,  too,  I  began  the  study  of  Greek.  To  a  boy  of  my  day 
this  study  was  hardly  less  bewildering  than  the  navigation  of 
the  Sargasso  Sea  to  Christopher  Columbus.  The  only  Greek 
grammars  in  existence  were  written  in  Latin ;  the  only  Greek 
Lexicons  obtainable  gave  only  Latin  definitions,  and  the  lexicon 
in  general  use  was  “  Schrevellius,”  limited  in  vocabulary  and 
badly  printed.  The  first  Greek  text  to  which  I  was  introduced 
was  the  Gospel  according  to  St.  John,  a  narrative  which,  for 
simplicity  of  style  and  freedom  from  embarrassing  idioms,  seems 
to  me  to  this  day  to  be  the  best  example  of  written  Greek  which 
can  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  beginner.  From  this  I  proceeded 
to  “  Collectanea  Graeca  Minora,”  another  of  the  excellent  books 
of  earlier  days,  which  has  long  since  been  laid  upon  the  shelf. 
Only  recently  a  vagrant  copy  of  this  old  book  fell  into  my  hands ; 
and  after  reading  it  entirely  through  again,  I  laid  it  down  with  a 
feeling  of  deep  regret  that  it  should  have  fallen  into  “  desuetude,” 
a  desuetude  which  in  the  interests  of  the  rising  generation  I  fear 
is  not  “  innocuous.” 

It  was  in  the  village  of  Saratoga  that  I  first  saw  a  printing 
office.  ISTothing  had  ever  more  impressed  my  young  imagination 
than  the  mysteries  of  the  typographical  art,  and  nothing  ever 
afforded  me  more  unalloyed  delight  than  the  opportunity  I  now 
enjoyed  to  fathom  these  mysteries.  I  soon  made  acquaintance 
with  all  the  printers,  and  was  indulged  in  my  passionate  desire 
to  be  taught  how  to  handle  the  “  stick.”  I  had  at  length  a  regu¬ 
lar  “  case  ”  assigned  me,  and  for  months  I  devoted  to  it  all  my 
hours  out  of  school.  I  learned  to  “compose,”  “impose,”  “cor¬ 
rect”  and  to  “distribute”  type;  became  in  fact  familiar  with  all 
brauches  of  the  typographical  art,  except  the  working  of  the 
press,  to  which  my  strength  was  not  equal.  But  I  learned  to 
wield  the  “balls”  with  a  certain  dexterity.  It  is  to  be  remem¬ 
bered  that  automatic  printing  was  then  unknown,  and  that  even 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


the  ink-rollers  now  in  universal  use  had  not  yet  been  invented. 
My  skill  thus  became  such  that,  had  I  at  any  time  in  my  life 
been  compelled  to  rely  for  subsistence  on  the  labor  of  my  hands, 
I  could  easily  have  earned  my  living  as  a  practical  printer.  Many 
years  later,  on  entering  a  printer’s  office  in  Tuscaloosa,  Ala.,  and 
observing  a  “stick-full”  of  “matter”  standing  by  itseK  on  an 
“  imposing  stone,”  the  spirit  of  the  craft  impelled  me  to  pick  it 
up.  Immediately  there  arose  a  loud  outcry  from  all  the  printers 
in  the  office,  who  expected  to  see  the  whole  tumbled  into  a  mass 
of  “  pi.”  Setting  it  gently  down  I  said  to  them,  “  Do  not  be  con¬ 
cerned,  gentlemen,  I  am  a  printer  myself.”  I  was  always  after¬ 
ward  a  great  favorite  in  that  office,  for  there  is  no  craft  in  which 
the  feeling  of  brotherhood  is  stronger  than  the  printers’. 

It  seems  to  me  that  my  voluntary  apprenticeship  to  the  print¬ 
er’s  trade  was  a  by  no  means  unimportant  element  of  my  edu¬ 
cation.  The  “copy”  which  I  “set  up”  embraced  many  pages 
of  instructive  matter,  and  the  hundreds  of  “takes”  which  I  put 
into  type  for  the  columns  of  the  “  Saratoga  Sentinel  ”  early  fa¬ 
miliarized  me  with  political  notions  and  the  forms  of  political  con¬ 
troversy.  But  a  principal  advantage  which  I  derived  from  this 
experience  was  the  confirmation  in  me  of  those  habits  of  concern 
tration  of  thought  and  persevering  industry  to  which  I  have 
owed  whatever  of  success  may  have  attended  me  in  life. 

From  Saratoga,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  I  was  transferred  to  a 
school  at  Stockbridge,  Mass.,  under  the  direction  of  a  very  capa¬ 
ble  instructor,  Mr.  Jared  Curtis,  or,  as  he  was  always  called, 
Major  Curtis.  In  what  service  he  had  won  his  military  rank  I 
never  knew.  In  this  school  the  scholastic  influences  were,  I 
think,  less  potent  with  me  than  at  Saratoga ;  but  those  which 
proceeded  from  contact  with  “  the  other  fellows  ”  were  exceed¬ 
ingly  energetic.  We  certainly  found  a  great  deal  of  time  for 
out-door  sports,  and  this  was  divided  between  base-ball,  drive- 
ball,  one,  two,  and  three  hole-cat,  hop-scotch,  and  marbles. 

It  was  at  Stockbridge  that  I  obtained  my  first  notions  of  a 
class  of  subjects  which  became  subsequently  the  favorite  pur¬ 
suits  of  my  life — subjects  now  embraced  under  the  comprehen¬ 
sive  term,  physics.'  An  itinerant  lecturer  on  these  subjects  vis¬ 
ited  Stockbridge  and  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on  chemistry 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


and  electricity,  with  experimental  illustrations.  The  apparatus 
used  by  him  was  very  simple,  and  the  display  which  he  made 
with  it  such  as  would  now  be  pronounced  contemptible ;  but  it 
was  intensely  fascinating  to  me.  The  glimpses  I  thus  obtained 
of  the  operation  of  natural  forces  stimulated  my  desire  to  learn 
more.  I  became  an  experimenter  myself.  By  dint  of  much 
labor,  and  by  the  conversion  of  many  common  vessels  and  uten¬ 
sils  to  unaccustomed  uses,  I  succeeded  in  creating  quite  a  bat¬ 
tery  of  philosophical  instruments ;  and  I  doubt  if  Davy  or  Far¬ 
aday,  in  the  laboratory  of  the  Eoyal  Institution,  was  ever  hap¬ 
pier  than  I  was  with  my  handful  of  metamorphosed  pots  and 
pans  around  me. 

I  remained  at  Stockbridge  until  I  had  attained  the  age  of 
fifteen  years  complete.  Thence  I  passed  to  New  Haven.  On  the 
7th  day  of  September,  1824,  I  was  examined  for  admission  to 
the  Freshman  class  in  Yale  College,  and  was  duly  admitted. 
Entrance  examinations  in  those  days  were  somewhat  less  formid¬ 
able  affairs  than  they  are  now,  but  I  think  they  answered  the 
purpose  quite  as  well.  I  was  one  of  a  squad  of  nine  applicants. 
The  examination  was  oral,  was  conducted  by  a  single  examiner 
in  all  the  requisitions,  and  was  completed  in  a  single  session. 
Then,  after  we  had  been  dismissed  for  a  space  in  which  “  one 
with  moderate  haste  might  tell  an  hundred,”  we  were  recalled 
and  informed  that  we  were  all  admitted  to  the  Freshman  class. 

There  was  one  thing  in  the  usages  of  that  day  at  Yale  on 
which  those  of  the  present  time  are  not  an  improvement.  After 
his  entrance  examination,  a  boy  was  either  in  college  or  he  was 
out  of  it.  There  were  no  half-way  admissions,  “  on  conditions,” 
as  the  phrase  is,  meaning  that  there  is  a  supplementary  exam¬ 
ination  to  come  by  and  by.  A  man  might  “  scrape  through,” 
as  it  was  called,  and  be  liable  to  founder  further  on ;  but  he 
might  also,  with  due  diligence,  even  after  such  a  peril,  swing 
clear  and  become  in  time  a  superior  scholar — a  thing  of  no  in¬ 
frequent  occurrence. 

The  two  or  three  years  that  followed  my  entrance  into  college 
were  years  of  earnest  and  persevering  labor ;  but  although  I  was 
apparently  surrounded  by  so  many  educational  influences,  en¬ 
joying  also,  or  at  least  being  supposed  to  enjoy,  the  instructions 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


of  SO  many  eminent  educators,  it  was  a  period  of  almost  literal 
self-education  with  me.  There  were  two  reasons  for  this ;  the 
first  was  that,  in  that  day,  no  man  at  Yale  who  aspired  to  be 
ranked  as  a  scholar  was  permitted  by  public  opinion  to  obtain 
any  assistance  from  any  quarter  whatever,  even  from  his  imme¬ 
diate  tutor,  in  preparing  himself  for  his  daily  scholastic  exer¬ 
cises.  He  must  stand  up  boldly  before  his  class,  relying  on  his 
own  resources  exclusively,  and  “take  his  chance.”  If  he  ac¬ 
quitted  himself  well,  all  due  honor  was  awarded  him;  if  he 
“stuck”  or  “flunked,”  he  lost  caste  in  proportion  to  the  gravity 
of  the  case.  Scholastic  rank  in  college  depended  then,  as  liter¬ 
ary  or  professional  rank  in  the  world  depends  always,  upon  the 
consensus  of  opinion  in  the  community  which  sees  and  judges 
it.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  an  artificial  grade  founded  on 
an  aggregate  of  numerical  valuations  of  particular  performances. 
A  man’s  superiority  was  acknowledged  because  it  was  felt,  not 
because  he  could  point  to  a  high  “  mark  ”  on  the  term  record. 
It  was  for  this  reason  that  every  man  was  constrained  to  show 
what  he  was  capable  of  doing  without  help.  Hence  frauds  in 
the  class-room  were  practically  impossible.  To  be  seen  once 
sailing  under  false  colors  was  nothing  less  than  ruin.  For  this 
reason  students  profited  little  from  the  aid  of  their  instructors 
in  meeting  current  difficulties.  As  a  partial  compensation  it  was 
allowed  to  seek  such  aid  when  the  ordeal  had  been  met ;  but 
even  then  it  did  not  tend  to  exalt  the  reputation  of  a  scholar  to 
avail  himself  of  such  a  resource. 

The  other  reason  which  seriously  limited  the  magnitude  of 
my  apparent  advantages  consisted  in  the  fact  that,  according  to 
the  usages  then  prevailing  at  Yale,  a  student  scarcely  came  into 
mental  contact  with  a  professor  before  his  senior  year.  Every 
class  at  entrance  was  broken  up  into  divisions  of  about  forty 
students  each,  and  a  tutor  was  assigned  to  each  such  division 
who  remained  its  sole  instructor,  no  matter  what  the  variety  of 
subject,  up  to  the  end  of  the  junior  year. 

Ho  part  of  my  training  at  Yale  College  seems  to  me,  as  I 
look  back  upon  it,  to  have  been  more  beneficial  than  that  which 
I  derived  from  the  practice  of  writing  and  speaking  in  the  liter¬ 
ary  society  to  which  I  belonged.  These  general  societies,  open 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


to  students  of  all  tlie  classes,  and  numbering  one  or  two  hundred 
members  each,  were  maintained  at  that  time  with  great  enthusi¬ 
asm.  I  am  told  that  they  are  now  extinct  at  New  Haven.  They 
have  been  supplanted,  I  suppose,  by  the  multiplicity  of  small 
secret  associations  which  decorate  themselves  with  Greek  letter 
titles,  but  which,  if  they  are  literary  at  all^  as  they  possibly  are 
(though  I  doubt),  can  never  furnish  the  stimulus  tt>  effort  which 
the  presence  of  a  large  audience  always  affords.  I  can  only 
regret  the  change.  It  seems  to  ,jne  that  with  J^he  loss  of  her 
literary  societies  half  the  glory  has  departed  from  Yale.  In  the 
old  Linonia  Hall  I  spent  many  of  the  most  profitable  hours  of 
my  college  life ;  and  I  witnessed  there  some  debates  which  for 
;  interest  and  brilliancy  were  equal  to  any  at  which  I  have  been 
privileged  to  be  present  in  assemblies  of  much  superior  dignity 
since.  There  were  some  men  of  my  time  who  made  no  very 
serious  struggle  for  grade  in  scholarship,  who  yet  would  some¬ 
times  “come  out  strong”  in  the  society;  and  for  the  sake  of  this 
class  of  students,  of  which  there  will  always  be  more  or  fewer  in 
college,  I  would  esteem  it  a  great  benefit  if  the  societies  could  be 
resuscitated. 

When  a  young  man  has  taken  his  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
it  is  customary  to  say  of  him  that  he  has  “  completed  his  educa¬ 
tion.”  (As  a  rule,  and  at  the  moment,  the  phrase  expresses  very 
well  his  own  opinion  of  himself. )  But  in  so  far  as  education  con¬ 
sists  in  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  he  will  find  himself  soon 
undeceived.  It  was  so  with  me.  In  my  undergraduate  life  I 
thought  rather  favorably  of  my  attainments.  It  was  only  after 
graduation  that  I  began  to  be  conscious  how  little  I  knew.  Com¬ 
mencement  occurred  in  my  year  on  Wednesday,  the  10th  of 
September,  and  on  the  Monday  following  I  entered  upon  ofiice 
as  a  teacher  in  the  Hartford  Grammar  School — an  institution  in 
which  for  time  out  of  mind  it  had  been  customary  to  break  in 
recent  Yale  graduates  for  service  as  tutors  at  Yale.  As  it  was 
my  purpose,  simultaneously  with  this  occupation,  to  prosecute 
my  reading  in  physics  and  the  higher  mathematics,  I  became  at 
once  aware  that,  with  a  knowledge  of  no  other  modern  language 
but  my  own,  I  could  not  make  a  step  of  satisfaetory  progress.  It 

seemed  to  me  that  I  had  a  new  education  before  me  in  which  I 
3 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


must  begin  at  tbe  beginning.  I  took  up  first  the  Frencb  lan¬ 
guage,  and  without  a  teacher,  by  dint  of  hard  study  and  resolute 
perseverance,  I  fixed  in  my  memory  all  the  pronouns,  connectives, 
and  irregular  verbs  contained  in  the  tables  of  Levizac  (the  gram¬ 
mar  then  in  vogue),  after  which  I  learned  to  read  rapidly.  I 
would  not  venture  to  claim  that  my  method  is  the  best.  It  is 
not  Mr.  Sauveur’s,  I  believe ;  but  any  one  who  will  try  it,  as  I 
did,  will  find  it  effectual. 

The  two  years  which  I  spent  in  the  Hartford  Grammar  School 
were  more  advantageous  to  me  educationally  than  any  other 
equal  period  in  the  course  of  my  life.  But  the  educational  proc¬ 
ess  did  not  end  with  them.  I  am  not  sure  it  is  ended  yet.  But 
having  in  my  narrative  reached  my  exitus  e  statu  pupillari^  I  have 
fulfilled  the  mandate  of  the  editor  of  The  Forum,  and  the  re¬ 
maining  history  is  not  to  be  written  here.  I  would  only  remark 
finally  that,  in  my  view  of  the  matter,  a  man’s  education  must  be 
mainly  his  own  work.  He  may  be  helped  or  he  may  be  embar¬ 
rassed  greatly  by  his  environment ;  but  neither  books,  nor 
teachers,  nor  apparatus,  nor  other  surrounding  conditions  of  any 
kind  will  be  of  any  avail,  unless  he  himself  furnish  the  energiz¬ 
ing  spirit  which  shall  put  them  to  account.  A  mind  is  not 
molded  as  an  earthen  vessel  is  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  the 
potter.  It  molds  itself  by  virtue  of  an  inherent  force  which 
makes  for  symmetry  or  for  deformity  according  to  the  direction 
given  it  by  consciousness  and  will.  Libraries,  universities, 
museums,  and  foreign  travel  are  powerful  auxiliaries  to  a  man 
who  is  determined  to  be  educated ;  but  he  will  find  them  of  no 
avail  if  he  makes  them  anything  more  than  secondary  instru¬ 
mentalities  in  the  work.  On  the  other  hand,  no  lack  of  such 
advantages  will  prevent  a  man  from  securing  a  valuable  educa¬ 
tion  who  is  resolved  to  educate  himself.  Witness,  for  instance, 
a  Benjamin  Franklin,  a  Hugh  Miller,  a  Michael  Faraday,  and  an 
Abraham  Lincoln. 


F.  A.  P.  Barnard. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Madame  Ueckak  used  to  say,  “It  is  never  permissible  to 
say  ‘I  say.’”  The  editor  of  The  Foeum  does  not  accept  this 
law,  designed  to  protect  society  from  the  egotists ;  or  else,  with 
full  knowledge  of  its  wisdom,  he  has  deliberately  become  acces¬ 
sory  to  its  violation.  He  knows  that  the  writers  of  the  present 
series,  and  not  the  editor,  must  bear  whatever  penalty  may  be 
incurred. 

In  answer  to  a  personal  defense  which  I  was  once  compelled 
to  write  in  the  interest  of  the  Church  I  represented,  my  opponent 
reported  the  number  of  times  I  had  in  my  article  used  the  first 
personal  pronoun ;  and,  although  this  was  no  answer  to  my 
argument,  it  was  quite  successful  in  producing  for  a  moment  a 
feeling  of  mortification.  What  a  harvest  would  my  old  antago¬ 
nist  find  in  the  following  pages  were  he  disposed  to  continue 
the  count !  And  if  Montaigne  is  right  when  he  says  that  “  a 
man  never  speaks  of  himself  without  loss,”  I  am  certainly  run¬ 
ning  great  risk  in  accepting  a  commission  to  tell  how  I  was  edu¬ 
cated,  especially  since  the  report  I  have  to  make  is  far  from 
being  creditable  to  myself,  inasmuch  as  I  never  was  “  educated  ” 
in  the  sense  in  which  the  term  is  usually  understood.  If  the 
editor  had  asked,  with  that  use  of  the  perfect  tense  which  em¬ 
braces  the  past  with  an  extension  into  the  present,  “  How  have 
you  been  educated?”  or  if  he  had  asked,  “How  are  you  being 
educated  ?  ”  I  should  have  given — well,  I  should  have  given  the 
very  answer  I  am  now  about  to  pen.  And  I  shall  avail  myself 
of  this  opportunity  for  saying  my  say  on  the  general  subject  of 
education,  as  I  have  come  to  look  at  it  through  a  little  over 
fifty -four  years  of  the  educational  process ;  and  shall  try  to  show 
how  I  was  delivered  from  the  notion  that  education  is  princi¬ 
pally  a  matter  of  schools  and  teachers,  of  text-books,  tasks  and 
recitations ;  and  from  that  other  notion  that  education  belongs 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


chiefly  to  the  early  years  of  one’s  life.  Eeminiscence  does  not 
bring  my  greatest  joy  as  a  student,  for  the  present  days  are  by 
far  my  best  days,  since  in  them  I  am  learning  more,  and  loving 
more  to  learn  than  ever  before,  since  I  opened  my  eyes  on  the 
morning  of  February  23,  1832,  in  the  old  town  of  Tuscaloosa, 
in  the  State  of  Alabama.  The  theory  I  have  just  advanced  con¬ 
cerning  the  extent  of  the  educational  process,  embracing  as  it 
does  the  whole  of  a  life-time,  will  justify  the  wide  autobiograph¬ 
ical  range  which  I  take  in  the  present  article. 

To  state  the  matter  fairly  and  fully  at  the  outset,  I  must  con¬ 
fess  that  I  have  never  been  at  college.  The  reader  can  scarcely 
conceive  the  grief,  made  up  of  regret,  discouragement,  and  mortifi¬ 
cation  which  this  fact  occasioned  me  through  most  of  the  years 
of  my  mature  life.  Even  now  I  sometimes  feel  the  sting  of  it 
in  the  society  of  college  men.  It  has  been  my  “  thorn  in  the 
flesh.”  I  have  never  found  entire  relief  from  its  sharp  prickings 
in  the  long  list  of  distinguished  men  and  women  in  both  hemi¬ 
spheres  and  in  all  ages — writers,  artists,  sages,  statesmen — who 
never  enjoyed  the  benefits  of  college  training ;  nor  in  recalling 
the  melancholy  failure  in  so  many  ways  of  so  many  men  who 
have  been  matriculated,  educated,  graduated,  and  be-titled  by  the 
greatest  universities;  nor  in  the  “practical”  man’s  notion  that 
classical  education  unfits  a  man  for  business.  And  certainly,  I 
have  never  felt  the  comfortable  self-complacency  which  is  some¬ 
times  attributed  to  the  self-educated  man.  The,  to  me,  un¬ 
comfortable  fact  that  I  never  even  entered  college,  I  have 
through  all  these  years  honestly  faced  and  deeply  deplored.  The 
genuine  regret  which  I  have  felt  has  supplied  a  large  part  of  the 
conviction  and  inspiration  under  which  I  am  now  working  for 
the  increase  of  faith  in  the  value  of  the  college  on  the  part  of 
the  average  American  citizen  and  parent.  By  voice,  by  pen,  by 
example,  in  the  ordering  of  my  own  son’s  education  and  by  the 
Chautauqua  service,  I  have  for  many  years  devoted  my  energies 
to  the  cause  of  the  higher  education  ;  and  I  make  this  statement 
concerning  my  relation  to  the  college  to  place  myseK  with  the 
advocates  of  liberal  culture  as  against  the  mistaken  and  merce¬ 
nary  theory  of  the  utilitarian ;  and  thus  I  make  humble  protest 
against  the  pitiable  vanity  of  those  self-educated  men,  who,  not 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


content  witli  making  boast  of  personal  acbievement,  depreciate 
educational  advantages  wbicb  they  failed  to  secure. 

Of  teachers  and  of  schools,  during  my  early  years,  I  had 
many.  My  father  was  a  man  of  large  intelligence,  a  great  reader, 
a  good  talker,  a  born  debater,  a  man  of  sound  sense,  sterling 
integrity,  strong  religious  convictions;  of  good  old  long-lived 
Huguenot  stock,  training  his  children  to  the  highest  family  and 
social  self-respect;  tracing  his  ancestry  to  the  south  of  France 
where  my  great-great- great-grandfather,  Levi  Yincent,  was  born 
April  10,  1676.  In  early  life  my  father  left  his  birthplace, 
Milton,  Pa.,  and  lived  for  many  years  in  Alabama.  There  he 
met  and  married  my  mother — my  first  teacher,  my  best  teacher, 
and  the  inspirer  of  my  life  even  now,  after  these  thirty-four 
years  of  silence.  She  was  beyond  most  women  in  all  the  best 
qualities  of  motherhood,  and  to  me,  as  Eichter  says,  she  “has 
made  all  other  mothers  venerable.”  With  Tennyson  I  can 
sing: 

“  Happy  is  he  with  such  a  mother  ! 

Trust  in  all  things  high  comes  easy  to  him.” 

My  earliest  recollections  of  the  formal  educational  methods  are 
connected  with  a  little  private  school  in  Philadelphia,  kept  by  a 
good  old  woman  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  under  whose  care 
I  was  placed  for  a  few  weeks  in  1837,  while  the  family  were  en 
route  from  Alabama  to  the  Susquehanna  Yalley.  Then  came 
the  administration  of  a  governess,  who  taught  my  brother 
and  myself  daily  in  an  upper  room  of  our  home  on  the  side 
of  Montour  Eidge,  near  the  mouth  of  Chillisquaque  Creek,  in 
Central  Pennsylvania.  She  gave  us  lessons  in  reading,  spell¬ 
ing,  numbers,  writing,  history,  geography,  and  manners.  She 
was  as  good  as  we  restless  boys  would  allow  her  to  be,  and  we 
cherish  her  memory  to  this  day.  How  long  this  regime  lasted  I 
cannot  now  remember ;  but  after  it  came  several  years  of  school- 
life  in  Milton  Academy,  the  Lewisburgh  Academy,  the  old 
“  Sand  Hill  School  House  ”  at  Chillisquaque,  and  the  prepara¬ 
tory  department  of  the  Lewisburgh  University,  under  dear  old 
Doctor  Taylor  and  his  gifted  son  Alfred.  Later  on  I  spent  a 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


year  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  at  the  Wesleyan  Institute,  wkick  closed 
my  career  as  a  formal  student  in  a  regular  institution. 

During  tliese  sckool  years  I  studied  all  that  any  boy  under 
fifteen  or  sixteen  was  expected  to  study.  I  mastered  Kirkham’s 
“  English  Glrammar,”  and  Murray’s  also ;  I  had  all  the  definitions 
and  rules  at  tongue’s  end,  and  much  of  the  “  fine  print.”  I  could 
parse  glibly.  I  spent  months  in  thus  dissecting  Milton’s  “  Para¬ 
dise  Lost,”  and  I  nevertheless  still  revere  the  poem  and  its 
author.  I  was  drilled  in  Town’s  “Analysis.”  I  read  and 
re-read  the  old  “English  Keader”  and  Porter’s  “Ehetorical 
Eeader.”  I  studied  Latin  in  those  days,  and  knew  the  gram¬ 
mar  well;  translated  the  “Eeader,”  “Cornelius  Nepos,”  and 
“  Caesar ;  ”  recited  in  Natural  Philosophy  (Comstock’s),  and  in 
Chemistry  and  Astronomy.  I  wrote  compositions  and  made 
declamations.  I  got  along  well  with  my  teachers.  They  were, 
with  a  single  exception,  kind,  and  I  was  studious.  I  was  not  a 
remarkably  bright  or  ready  pupil,  and,  except  under  one  teacher, 
was  never,  I  think,  accounted  dull  or  slow.  Of  that  teacher 
I  have  only  this  to  say,  that  I  have  made  the  memory  of  his 
injustice  and  severity  serve  me  well,  as  they  have  warned  me 
against  imitating  him,  and  have  enabled  me  to  warn  secular 
teachers  by  the  thousand  against  the  sad  and  inexcusable  mis¬ 
takes  he  made. 

I  taught  school  for  several  terms,  beginning  the  summer  that 
I  was  fifteen,  in  a  little  school-house  near  my  father’s  house  in 
Chillisquaque.  My  last  school  was  at  Mechanicsville,  near  Col- 
raine  Forge,  in  Pennsylvania,  in  1850-1851.  I  loved  dearly  to 
teach,  and  was  myself  a  student  while  I  taught.  I  may  not 
here,  for  lack  of  space,  recall  the  various  devices  by  which  I 
made  school-life  a  pleasurable  experience  to  my  pupils  and  a 
means  of  discipline  to  myself.  How  well  I  remember  the  little 
grove  (adjoining  the  old  Watsontown  school-house,  in  Pennsyl¬ 
vania),  a  small  section  of  which,  in  1848,  my  pupils  and  I  in¬ 
closed  with  a  rustic  fence  and  provided  with  seats,  thus  creating 
a  miniature  Chautauqua:  there,  on  pleasant  days,  in  the  open 
air,  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  amidst  the  singing  of  birds,  we 
drank  in  the  fresh,  air  of  heaven,  and  studied  our  lessons  with 
renewed  diligence.  The  warm  grasp  of  the  hand  and  the  affec- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


tionate  allusion  to  tlie  old  scliool  days  wliicli  I  occasionally  re¬ 
ceive  from  some  former  student,  make  me  glad  that  I  ever 
taugkt,  and  make  me  prize  more  and  more  the  high,  helpful, 
and  holy  office  of  the  teacher.  Through  most  of  my  career  as  a 
pastor — from  1853  to  1865 — I  kept  up  special  classes  in  Biblical 
history,  geography,  and  interpretation,  and  in  Sunday-school 
normal  work,  prizing  the  service  of  teaching  as  a  means  of  per¬ 
sonal  intellectual  discipline.  To  teach  honestly  is  to  be  a  stu¬ 
dent,  and  that  under  most  favorable  conditions ;  for  to  teach,  one 
must  know ;  must  know  more  than  he  expects  to  teach ;  must 
know  how  so  to  “  put  ”  knowledge  as  to  bring  other  minds  into 
a  receptive  and  active  state  toward  knowledge ;  and  must  him¬ 
self  feel  that  inspiration  whieh  comes  from  the  contact  between 
eager  minds — minds  eager  to  know  and  minds  eager  to  quicken 
and  to  communicate. 

The  chief  value  of  my  almost  continuous  school-life  as  a 
student  for  the  first  fifteen  years,  and  of  my  school-life  as  a 
teacher  for  nearly  four  years  that  followed,  lay  in  my  home-life 
and  its  rare  opportunities.  My  father  was  a  reader,  and  had  a 
small  but  valuable  library  whieh  he  required  his  children  to  use. 
I  sometimes  wish  that  I  had  owned  Scott’s  writings  in  those 
days,  but  fiction  was  not  heartily  approved  in  the  old  home.  I 
read  “Eobinson  Crusoe”  and  the  “Swiss  Family  Eobinson,” 
Bunyan’s  “Pilgrim’s  Progress”  (which  my  father  did  not  con¬ 
sider  a  work  of  fiction),  and  a  few  other  products  of  the  imagi¬ 
nation  ;  but  I  did  read,  and  that  before  I  was  fifteen  years  of 
age,  “The  Spectator,”  Gibbon’s  “Eome,”  Eollin’s  “Ancient  His¬ 
tory,”  Pitkin’s  “  Civil  and  Political  History  of  the  United  States,” 
Plutarch’s  “  Lives,”  Pollock’s  “  Course  of  Time,”  Young’s  “  Hight 
Thoughts,”  “  Paradise  Lost,”  Thomson’s  “  Seasons,”  Cowper’s 
“  Task,”  Pope’s  “  Essay  on  Man,”  and  the  general  poems  of  Gold¬ 
smith.  Among  these  my  favorites  were  “  The  Spectator  ”  and 
“The  Seasons.”  I  not  only  read  but  I  studied  them.  Peter 
Parley’s  histories  were  far  more  pleasant  and  useful  to  me  in 
those  days  than  some  of  the  statelier  historical  works  I  was 
required  to  read. 

My  father  had  given  much  attention  to  the  matter  of  cor¬ 
rect  pronunciation  and  expression,  and  made  a  point  of  hold- 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


ing  liis  cMldren  to  the  use  of  good  English.  All  mis-pro- 
nnnciations  and  all  “bad  grammar”  which  he  detected  were 
condemned,  and  we,  the  children,  were  not  only  allowed  but  en¬ 
couraged  to  call  attention  to  whatever  we  thought  improper  in 
the  speech  of  each  other,  and  of  father  himself.  To  this  habit 
of  parental  carefulness  I  owe  more  for  what  little  knowledge  of 
English  I  have  than  to  all  my  teachers  and  text-books  put 
together.  Living  for  several  years  in  a  community  where  the 
worst  provincialisms  prevailed,  I  was  kept  to  a  great  degree  from 
falling  into  habits  which  it  would  have  been  hard  in  the  after¬ 
years  to  correct. 

The  religious  element  was  an  important  factor  in  my  early 
training.  My  father  was  a  strict  disciplinarian  and  a  firm  Chris¬ 
tian  believer.  Family  prayer  twice  a  day  was  the  invariable 
rule.  Sabbath  was  a  day  of  public  and  domestic  worship,  of 
songs  and  prayer,  and  careful  searchings  of  heart.  The  work  of 
the  week-day  in  school,  in  business,  and  in  recreation  was  on  the 
Sabbath  brought  to  a  rigid  religious  test.  In  all  this  there  was 
no  harshness  or  severity ;  it  was  simply  placing  emphasis  upon 
the  greatest  reality  of  human  life.  My  mother  was  an  incarna¬ 
tion  of  consistency,  fidelity,  self-sacrifice,  and  serenity.  I  never 
heard  her  speak  one  harsh  or  foolish  word.  She  believed  with 
her  whole  soul  in  the  truths  of  religion  as  taught  by  Jesus  of 
Hazareth,  and  her  daily  life  was  controlled  by  her  faith.  There¬ 
fore  I  could  never  think  of  education  as  a  mere  disciplining  or 
furnishing  of  the  intellect.  To  my  thought,  it  embraced  the 
developing  and  ordering  of  the  whole  manhood.  This  was  my 
mother’s  doctrine,  continually  reiterated  by  my  father:  edu¬ 
cation  without  religious  faith  and  life  is  valueless.  To  my  rest¬ 
less,  undisciplined,  selfish  boy-nature,  all  this  seemed  hard  and 
impracticable.  To  her  it  was  easy,  but  it  was  beyond  my  grasp. 
Therefore  life  was  to  me  a  struggle,  full  of  divine  aspirations 
and  of  all  too  human  grovelings,  of  promise  and  of  failure ;  and 
I  suffered  much  from  a  conscious  contrast  between  the  best  I 
dreamed  of  and  the  shabby  best  I  did  attain.  False  motives  in 
study  hampered  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  no  right  to 
gain  mental  power  through  selfish  ambition.  Education  was  my 
idol,  and  yet  I  could  not  conscientiously  give  myself  wholly 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


to  it.  In  tliis  atmospTiere  I  was  brought  up,  and  my  religious 
reading  was  determined  by  it.  I  read  in  my  early  boyhood 
(before  I  was  fifteen)  the  lives  of  Harlan  Page,  John  and  Mary 
Fletcher,  James  B.  Taylor,  John  Summerfield,  John  Wesley, 
William  Carvosso,  Adoniram  Judson,  and  others  of  this  saintly 
class. 

Nature  was  full  of  wonder  to  me,  and  wielded  a  strange  in¬ 
fluence  over  my  life.  The  stars,  the  night-winds,  the  thunder, 
the  clouds  piled  up  like  towers  at  the  sunset,  the  ripples  on  the 
bosom  of  the  river,  the  dark  outline  of  the  Montour  Mountain 
in  full  view  from  my  home ;  all  these,  and  everything  else  in 
nature,  took  hold  upon  me,  filling  me  with  unrest  and  longing, 
that  grew  at  times  into  a  sort  of  torture.  Everything  had  relig¬ 
ious  relations  and  intimations,  and  my  young  life  during  these 
earlier  years  was  often  morbid  and  sometimes  wretched.  I  was 
exceedingly  ambitious  to  be  something  in  the  world.  I  had  a 
degree  of  faith  in  my  ability,  but  eternity  so  impinged  on  the 
present  as  often  to  make  life  a  melancholy  thing.  Legitimate 
recreation,  not  sufficiently  encouraged  by  my  father,  seemed  to 
me  frivolity ;  my  mother’s  saintliness  all  the  while  appearing  as 
necessary  as  it  was  unattainable.  This  chaotic  religious  condi¬ 
tion  may  have  been  (I  sometimes  think  it  was)  a  necessary  step  in 
my  culture.  I  ^repeat  the  melancholy  story  not  to  condemn,  but 
to  make  defense  of  early  religious  education,  and  to  enter  protest 
againgt  the  daugerous  reaction  of  these  latter  days.  I  do  not 
regret  the  faithful  teachings  which  brought  me  thus  early  face 
to  face  with  religious  verities ;  but  had  this  discipline  lacked  the 
demonstration  of  the  pure  and  consistent  life  of  my  mother,  it 
would  have  been  disastrous  in  the  extreme.  Supported  as  it 
was  by  her  living  example,  and  by  the  real  tenderness  and  in¬ 
tegrity  of  my  father,  I  was  saved  from  permanent  morbidness, 
and  from  the  reaction  which  often  comes  to  a  man  when  the 
religious  instruction  of  his  youth  has  been  a  discipline  of  legal¬ 
ity  without  love,  and  of  dogmatism  without  the  vitalizing  and 
winning  power  of  personal  example. 

I  read  in  those  days  many  sermons  and  much  theology.  I 
listened  to  lively  discussions  between  Arminians  and  Calvinists, 
Baptists  and  pedo-Baptists ;  heard  something  of  Second  Advent 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


theories,  and  early  began  to  prepare  for  the  ministry  to  which 
my  mother  told  me  I  had  been  at  my  birth  consecrated. 

In  1849  I  was  licensed  to  “exhort;”  in  the  same  year  I  re¬ 
ceived  license  as  a  local  preacher ;  and  in  March,  1851,  was  ap¬ 
pointed  to  serve  as  jnnior  preacher  on  the  Luzerne  circuit  in  the 
old  Baltimore  conference,  with  a  senior  preacher,  the  Eev.  John 
W.  Elliot,  in  general  charge  of  the  circuit.  In  this  my  first  year 
of  service  I  did  some  of  the  most  faithful  study  of  my  life.  I 
was  nineteen  years  old;  college  had  been  abandoned  through  the 
pressure  of  church  influence  and  of  personal  conscientious  con¬ 
viction.  Whatever  I  did  must  be  done  alone.  I  rode  on  horse¬ 
back  over  what  was  called  a  “  four- weeks’  circuit,”  extending 
from  White  Haven  to  Black  Creek,  a  distance  of  thirty  miles. 
Over  the  good  roads  which  stretched  across  the  mountains  of  this 
coal  region  I  would  ride  for  hours  without  seeing  a  house  or 
meeting  a  traveler,  and  here  I  studied  diligently.  I  perused  my 
professional  standard,  the  Holy  Bible;  read  Watson’s  “  Institutes  ” 
and  Wesley’s  “  Sermons ;  ”  prepared  sermon-outlines  of  my  own ; 
practiced  the  delivery  of  them  on  horseback  amoog  the  pines ; 
committed  to  memory  whole  pages  of  Campbell’s  “  Pleasures  of 
Hope ;  ”  read  the  “  Divina  Commedia  ”  of  Dante ;  and  studied  every 
page  of  “  The  Methodist  Quarterly,”  then  edited  by  the  scholarly 
John  McClintock.  I  especially  read  and  re-read  the  able  series 
of  papers  on  Comte’s  Positive  Philosophy,  which  appeared  that 
year  in  the  “  Quarterly.”  I  wasted  no  time ;  felt  myself  wholly  un¬ 
fit  for  the  work  I  was  engaged  in;  wondered  if  I  could  somehow 
manage  to  break  loose  from  the  holdings  of  what  I  believed  to 
be  Providence,  and  go  to  college ;  struggled  day  after  day  with 
my  ambitions ;  recalled  the  words  and  looks  of  my  mother ;  re¬ 
membered  what  my  father  had  written  me  in  1849 :  “  I  rejoice 
that  you  seem  to  have  your  mind  fixed  upon  being  something. 
Amen.  Let  it  be  something  good.”  I  had  as  a  public  speaker 
an  easy  delivery,  a  good  voice,  and  some  pathetic  power.  My 
sensible  father  said  to  me  before  I  left  home :  “  Do  not  be  de¬ 
ceived  by  the  extravagant  praise  of  weak  and  ignorant  people, 
and  especially  of  foolish  women  in  the  church.  Eemember  how 
little  they  know,  and  what  poor  judges  they  are  of  preaching. 
Eemember  that  back  of  the  pleasant  manner  and  good  voice  and 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


correct  pronunciation  there  must  be  sound  thought.”  So,  among 
those  Pennsylvania  forests  I  would  read  the  articles  on  Comte's 
Philosophy,  the  book  notices  and  editorials  in  the  “  Quarterly,” 
and  compare  my  sermons  with  the  strength  and  wealth  of 
thought,  and  the  vigor  of  expression  on  those  scholarly  pages ; 
and  I  often  imagined  John  McClintock  sitting  behind  me  in  the 
pulpit  while  I  preached.  This  process  not  only  kept  me  “  hum¬ 
ble  ”  enough,  but  sometimes  promoted  a  state  of  self-conscious¬ 
ness  quite  unfavorable  to  the  most  successful  delivery  of  my 
sermons. 

I  made  effort  after  effort  to  bring  conscience  and  circum¬ 
stances  into  line  with  my  ambition,  and  to  break  loose  from  the 
active  ministry  in  order  to  complete  a  college  course.  It  was  all 
in  vain.  I  finally  yielded,  but  it  was  after  a  prolonged  struggle. 
Among  my  old  letters  I  find  two  from  my  father  written  in  1852, 
in  both  of  which  he  touches  upon  the  great  source  of  my  trouble. 
He  probes  for  motive.  He  urges  me  to  do  what  seems  best. 
“Could  I  have  my  mind  fully  satisfied,”  he  writes,  “that  your 
aim  is  to  glorify  Grod  in  all  this  desire  for  knowledge,  then  I 
would  say  ‘press  toward  the  mark.’  But  if  seff  stands  out,  then 
take  care.  You  may  become  as  ‘sounding  brass ’  or  ‘a  tinkling 
cymbal,’  with  all  your  learning.  Excuse  this  word  of  caution.” 
Later  in  1852  he  writes:  “I  notice  your  argument  in  favor  of  a 
learned  ministry,  but  really,  my  son,  the  appeal  is  all  labor  lost. 

You  are  not  one  whit  more  in  favor  of  a  learned  ministrv  than 

«/ 

your  father.  All  he  objects  to  is  a  dependence  upon  learning.” 
Here  the  father  misunderstood  the  son,  for  the  latter  never  for 
one  moment  placed  the  slightest  dependence  upon  intellectual 
culture  as  a  source  of  spiritual  power.  But  it  was  something  for 
a  young  man  to  have  the  frank,  loving  watch-care  and  counsel 
of  so  discreet  and  devoted  a  father. 

The  active  ministry  having  been  chosen,  and  all  efforts  to 
leave  it  even  temporarily  for  further  educational  preparation 
having  proved  futile,  in  1853  I  joined  the  Hew  Jersey  Confer¬ 
ence,  and  was  appointed  to  my  first  church,  at  Horth  Belleville, 
H.  J.,  at  the  same  time  taking  up  the  four  years’  course  of  pre¬ 
paratory  study  required  by  the  Church:  General  history,  the 
English  branches,  biblical,  historical,  systematic,  and  practical 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


theology,  with  written  sermons  and  annual  examinations.  Un¬ 
der  this  system  in  those  days  the  candidate  might  by  the  grace 
of  sympathetic  examiners  pass  the  examinations  with  compara¬ 
tive  ease ;  but  the  man  ambitious  to  do  faithful  work  found  such 
work  possible,  and  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  my  four 
years’  course  I  studied  diligently,  coveting  the  most  rigid  annual 
examinations  that  I  might  have  the  largest  measure  of  self-respect 
as  a  student,  and  prove  to  myself  at  least,  what  I  might  have 
done  had  the  four  years’  college  course  been  granted. 

During  my  early  ministerial  life  I  conceived  a  plan  reaching 
through  the  years  by  which,  in  connection  with  professional 
duties,  I  might  turn  my  whole  life  into  a  college  course,  and  by 
force  of  personal  resolve  secure  many  benefits  of  college  educa¬ 
tion.  I  remembered  that  the  college  aims  to  promote,  through 
force  of  personal  resolve,  the  systematic  training  of  all  the  mental 
faculties,  to  the  habit  of  concentrated  and  continuous  attention, 
that  the  mind  with  its  varied  energies  may  be  trained  and  thus 
prepared  to  do  its  best  work,  subject  to  the  direction  of  the  will ; 
that  it  cultivates  the  powers  of  oral  and  written  expression ;  that 
it  encourages  fellowships  and  competitions  among  students  seek¬ 
ing  the  same  end ;  that  it  secures  the  influence  of  professional 
specialists — great  teachers  who  know  how  to  inspire  and  to 
quicken  other  minds ;  and  that  it  gives  to  a  man  broad  surveys 
of  the  fields  of  learning,  discovering  relations,  indicating  the 
lines  of  special  research  for  those  whose  peculiar  aptitudes  are 
developed  by  college  discipline ;  thus  giving  one  a  sense  of  his 
own  littleness  in  the  presence  of  the  vast  realm  of  truth  exposed 
to  view,  so  that  he  may  find  out  with  La  Place  that  “  what  we 
know  here  is  very  little;  what  we  are  ignorant  of  is  immense.” 

The  task  before  me  was  to  secure  these  results  to  as  large  a 
degree  as  possible:  mental  discipline  in  order  to  intellectual 
achievement,  practice  in  expression,  contact  with  living  stu¬ 
dents  and  living  teachers,  and  the  broad  outlook  which  the  col¬ 
lege  curriculum  guarantees.  This  aim,  therefore,  for  years  con¬ 
trolled  my  professional  and  non-professional  studies.  It  was 
constantly  present  in  sermonizing,  in  teaching,  in  general  reading, 
in  pastoral  visitation,  in  contact  deliberately  sought  with  the 
ablest  men  and  women — specialists,  scientists,  litterateurs^  whom 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


I  could  find,  especially  those  who  had  gone  through  college  or 
who  had  taught  in  college.  I  secured  from  time  to  time  special 
teachers  in  Greek,  in  Hebrew,  in  French,  in  physical  science, 
giving  what  time  I  could  to  preparation  and  recitation.  I  read 
with  care  translations  of  Homer  and  Virgil,  outlines  of  the  lead¬ 
ing  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  and  in  connection  with  an  exceed¬ 
ingly  busy  professional  life,  devoted  much  time  to  popular  read¬ 
ings  in  science  and  English  literature.  When  thirty  years  old  I 
went  abroad,  and  spent  a  year  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  coming  into 
personal  contact  with  the  Old  World  of  history  and  literature, 
and  found  double  pleasure  in  the  pilgrimage  because  I  made  it  a 
part  of  Tfiy  college  training.  In  Egypt  and  Palestine,  in  Greece 
and  Italy,  I  felt  the  spell  of  the  old  sages,  writers,  artists,  and 
was  glad  to  find  that  the  readings  of  my  youth  and  of  my  later 
manhood  greatly  helped  me  to  appreciate  the  regions  I  visited 
and  the  remains  in  art  and  architecture  which  I  was  permitted 
to  study. 

This  meager  and  somewhat  morbid  story  of  a  half  century  of 
schooling  has  been  told  with  perfect  frankness.  Since  the  strug¬ 
gles  of  those  early  years  peace  has  come.  The  old  and  appa¬ 
rently  irreconcilable  conflict  between  studies  secular  and  sacred 
has  ceased.  Life  is  no  longer  filled  with  insatiable  longings.  I 
am  at  school  now  as  a  student,  every 
ricula  reach  out  into  undefined  futures.  I  shall  never  “  finish  ” 
my  education. 

John  H.  Vincent. 


day ;  and  unfinished  cur- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


I  SEE  that  my  predecessors  have  succeeded  in  discovering 
pretty  or  ingenious  devices  under  which  they  have  shielded 
themselves  from  the  implied  egotism  of  posing  on  this  rostrum 
in  the  attitude  of  eminent  examples,  or  at  least  representative 
types,  of  educated  men.  I,  too,  have  felt  very  keenly  the  need 
of  such  protection,  but  am  in  the  end  obliged  to  confess  that  all 
my  efforts  have  failed  to  invent  any  covering  of  sufficient  thick¬ 
ness  and  density  to  serve  my  purpose.  There  is  no  course  left, 
accordingly,  but  to  accept,  submissively,  the  consequences  of  my 
rashness. 

My  early  life  was  passed  on  a  farm — I  should  say  about 
sixteen  years  of  it.  It  was  a  farm  in  the  north-east  part  of 
Connecticut,  practically  shut  in  by  woods,  and  distant  a  mile 
from  the  nearest  neighbors.  But  the  farm  was  large  and  my 
grandfather  employed  many  laborers,  so  that  we  formed  a  small 
colony  by  ourselves. 

At  the  age  of  four  years  I  commenced  attending  the  district 
school  in  the  traditional  “  red  school-house,”  a  mile  and  a  half 
distant  on  one  of  the  roads  through  the  woods.  My  aunt  was 
the  instructress  for  that  summer.  I  suppose  that  I  learned  to 
read  a  little,  but  have  no  recollection  of  anything  except  my 
interest  in  the  older  boys  and  girls  whom  I  saw  there.  Coming 
as  I  did  from  the  secluded  life  on  the  farm,  with  no  playmates 
or  young  people  that  I  was  permitted  to  associate  with,  it  was  a 
great  event  to  find  playmates.  I  can  remember  that  by  the  fol¬ 
lowing  summer  I  had  already  learned  to  read.  I  read  and  re¬ 
read  the  pieces  in  the  text-book  of  my  own  accord  at  home  until 
I  quite  mastered  them.  On  the  third  summer  I  was  set  to  study¬ 
ing  a  large  geography.  Our  new  teacher  was  considered  excel¬ 
lent  among  the  farmer  people,  because  she  was  “  strict  ”  and 
could  “beat  knowledge  into  the  heads  of  her  pupils.”  One 


OF  THE 

UN!VE[':S!TVcf  ILLINOIS. 

HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 

lesson  in  that  large  geography  (Eoswell  Smith’s,  of  Hartford) 
I  well  remember,  because  the  entire  class  failed  to  learn  tbe 
answer  to  the  question,  “What  is  a  city?”  No  wonder;  we 
were  thirty  miles  from  the  nearest  city,  and  never  had  seen 
one.  We  could  not  describe  a  city  from  our  own  knowledge, 
nor  could  we  comprehend  the  answer  printed  in  the  book. 
That  answer,  as  near  as  I  can  recall  it,  was  this :  “  A  city  is 
a  large  town  containing  many  inhabitants,  incorporated  with 
peculiar  privileges,  and  governed  by  a  mayor,  aldermen,  and 
other  officers.”  W e  were  told  to  remain  after  the  close  of  school 
in  the  afternoon  and  learn  that  mysterious  definition !  I  was 
much  grieved  at  the  punishment,  and  was  allowed  to  go  home 
as  soon  as  I  had  repeated  the  words  after  the  teacher,  sobbing  as 
I  did  so.  As  a  rule,  I  was  well  behaved  at  school  and  very  rarely 
received  punishment.  This  “strict”  teacher,  however,  struck 
me  once  on  the  hand  with  a  ferule."^  An  older  boy  sitting 
near  by  had  seen  me  absorbed  in  my  book,  and  wishing  diversion 
had  suddenly  thrust  a  pin  into  my  side.  I  only  winced,  but  he 
laughed  or  “  snickered.”  The  teacher  looked  up  and  said : 
“  Who  did  that  ?  ”  “  Simeon  pricked  me,”  I  replied.  The  teacher 
made  no  further  inquiries,  but  punished  us  both,  not  severely, 
with  the  ferule.  I  deserved  my  part  of  it  for  tale-bearing,  per¬ 
haps  ;  but  that^teacher  did  not  knowingly  punish  for  mere  tale¬ 
bearing  ;  she  encouraged  it,  rather. 

After  I  had  learned  how  to  read  I  began  to  put  my  knowledge 
to  use.  Finding  an  old  Latin  grammar  about  the  house,  prob¬ 
ably  a  stray  volume  from  the  library  of  my  great-grandfather 
Wilkinson,  a  physician,  I  committed  to  memory  a  long  list  of 

*A  flat  piece  of  wood  called  also  a  ‘  ‘  ruler,”  and  not  the  giant  fennel  plant 
used  by  the  Homans  in  flogging  school -boys  and  slaves,  and  by  some  lexicog¬ 
raphers  supposed  to  be  called  ferula  because  from  ferire,  to  strike.  It  is  sin¬ 
gular  that  this  same  giant  fennel,  called  rdpOr^^  by  the  Greeks,  was  used  by 
Prometheus  in  preserving  the  stolen  fire  by  means  of  its  tinder-like  pith.  Alex¬ 
ander  carried  with  him  Aristotle’s  critical  edition  of  Homer  in  the  hollow  of  the 
same  plant,  thus  preserving  the  same  sort  of  fire,  perhaps,  that  Prometheus 
stole.  As  the  Greek  school-master  also  made  use  of  this  plant  on  his  dull  and 
obstinate  pupils,  the  question  arises  as  to  the  poetic  symbolism :  was  Prometh¬ 
eus,  perhaps,  a  flogging  school-master,  kindling  divine  fire  in  his  pupils  with  the 
ferule?  We  know  that  Aristotle  was  Alexander’s  school-master.  But  I  leave 
this  interesting  question  to  the  skillful  archaeologists. 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Latin  phrases  and  sentences,  with  their  translations.  On  a  visit 
in  mj  sixth  year  at  my  paternal  grandfather’s  in  Ehode  Island, 
I  attracted  the  attention  and  commendation  of  my  aunts  and 
uncles  by  repeating  what  I  had  learned. 

When  I  had  reached  my  eighth  year  I  attended  also  the 
winter  session  of  school.  As  is  well  known,  the  Connecticut 
schools  drew  most  of  the  money  for  their  support  from  the  pro¬ 
ceeds  of  the  State  school  fund.  A  twelve- week  session  in,  the 
summer  taught  by  a  woman  (the  “  school-ma’am,’’  as  she  was 
called),  and  a  three-month  session  in  the  winter  taught  by  a 
“  school -master,”  constituted  the  entire  school  year,  some  twenty- 
five  full  weeks  all  told.  There  was  no  continuity  of  instruction, 
very  rarely  the  same  person  teaching  two  consecutive  sessions  of 
school,  and  little  or  no  supervision  as  regards  studies  on  the 
part  of  the  school  committee  or  the  parish  board  of  examiners. 
There  was  no  fixed  course  of  study  except  so  far  as  tradi¬ 
tion  had  settled  it.  The  “three  E’s”  held  their  place.  We 
still  used  goose-quills,  which  required  frequent  mending  by 
the  teacher.  He  wrote  the  copies  also  at  the  top  of  the  page. 
Steel  pens  began  to  be  used  soon  after  that  time.  At  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  school  term  all  pupils  were  made  to  commence  with 
the  first  lesson  in  their  books,  no  matter  how  many  years 
they  had  already  devoted  to  the  study  of  them.  This,  of 
course,  had  its  merit,  as  an  annual  review  tended  to  produce 
thoroughness.  In  case,  however,  the  teacher  attempted  clas¬ 
sification,  the  maturer  pupils  were  kept  back  for  the  sake  of 
those  just  beginning,  and,  not  being  required  to  study  again 
what  was  already  familiar,  fell  into  lax  and  listless  habits.  But 
classification  was  not  much  attempted.  In  a  school  of  twenty  or 
thirty  pupils  there  were  perhaps  as  many  as  forty-five  “reci¬ 
tations  ”  *  each  day.  In  most  classes  (Eng.  “  Form  ”)  there 
were  only  two  or  three  pupils,  and  in  many  only  one.  The 
teacher  had  five  and  sometimes  ten  minutes  to  devote  to  each 
lesson,  and  of  course  could  not  draw  out  the  reflective  powers 
of  the  pupil  by  discussion  and  analysis.  Everything  drifted  to 
mere  memoriter  lessons  where  such  were  possible.  Even  in  the 

*  American  word  for  class  exercise,  i.  e.,  repetition  or  rehearsal  of  lesson  by 
the  pupil  to  the  teacher  for  criticism  and  examination. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


most  meclianically  conducted  school,  much  exercise  of  thought 
on  the  part  of  the  pupil  is  demanded,  especially  in  mathematics. 
A  bright  pupil  always  does  his  own  reflection,  moreover,  in 
spite  of  school  methods.  He  finds  interesting  matter  for  thought 
in  all  his  studies,  for  the  traditional  studies  of  the  elementary 
school  open  the  doors  to  the  solid  intellectual  acquisition  of  the 
entire  human  race. 

On  the  whole,  the  chief  text-book  in  the  school  was  Hoah 
Webster’s  “  Elementary  Spelling  Book;  ”  the  same  book  that  is 
still  published  and  sold  at  the  rate  of  twelve  hundred  thousand 
copies  per  annum,  being  the  most  generally  used  of  all  school 
text-books.  This  work  was  learned  in  my  school  days  from 
cover  to  cover.  Its  author  possessed  a  remarkable  power  of 
logical  definition,  being  as  careful  as  Aristotle  to  include  always 
the  “  proximate  genus  and  the  characteristic  difference  ”  in  de¬ 
fining  any  word.  But  his  power  of  popular  exposition  was 
otherwise  very  small,  and  hence  his  sentences  were  not  clear  and 
intelligible  to  immature  minds,  although  admirable  to  the  skilled 
thinker.  I  have  already  quoted  the  definition  of  “  city  ”  from 
my  geography,  obviously  enough  modeled  on  the  Aristotelian 
form  of  definition.  Here  are  two  specimens  from  the  introduc¬ 
tion  to  the  spelling-book :  “  Language  or  speech  is  the  utterance 
of  articulate  sounds  or  voices,  rendered  significant  by  usage,  for 
the  expression  and  communication  of  thoughts.”  “Accent  is  a 
forcible  stress  or  impulse  of  voice  on  a  letter  or  syllable,  dis¬ 
tinguishing  it  from  others  in  the  same  word.”  I  never  heard  a 
teacher  once  attempt  to  explain  these  sentences,  or  even  question 
a  pupil  on  their  meaning.  But  all  pupils,  young  and  old,  were 
required  superstitiously  to  memorize  and  repeat  them,  year  after 
year,  exactly  as  they  were  printed.  The  short  pithy  sentences 
placed  after  the  spelling  lessons  contain  a  store  of  wisdom,  and 
as  this  book  was  used  for  a  first  reading-book  and  primer,  its 
influence  was  on  the  whole  great  and  salutary. 

When  I  was  twelve  years  old,  we  happened  to  have  a  school¬ 
master  of  more  qualifications  than  usual.  He  knew  a  smatter¬ 
ing  of  Latin  and  Spanish.  One  day  I  took  with  me  to  school 
the  old  Latin  grammar  that  I  had  amused  myself  with  six  years 
before.  Noticing  it  as  he  passed  my  desk,  the  master  said: 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


“  That’s  right ;  ”  and  picking  np  the  book  proceeded,  much  to  my 
surprise,  to  assign  me  a  lesson  to  learn — the  paradigm  Penna. 
From  that  day  I  studied  Latin.  My  teacher  hunted  up  an  old 
copy  of  “  Andrews’  Latin  Leader,”  and  with  a  most  superficial 
knowledge  of  inflections  I  began  to  translate  “^sop’s  Fables.” 
Some  two  years  before  this,  at  nine,  I  had  taken  English  gram¬ 
mar,  in  Roswell  Smith’s  text-book,  and  in  one  winter  had  pretty 
well  mastered  it.  It  was  always  a  delightful  study  to  me. 
“  Parsing,”  as  it  was  called,  is  a  logical  exercise,  practicing  the 
mind  on  definitions  and  classification.  As  my  ancestry  on  my 
mother’s  side  included  clergymen  in  its  two  cbief  branches,  and 
as  my  great  grandfather  on  my  father’s  side  was  a  metaphysician 
as  well  as  physician  and  surgeon,  I  suppose  it  possible  that  I 
had  some  inherited  aptitude  for  abstract  studies,  which  accounts 
for  my  great  delight  in  grammar  while  a  youth,  and  for  a  still 
keener  relish  for  philosophic  studies  in  later  life.  I  seemed  to 
find  an  intellectual  food  in  these  things  which  perfectly  satisfied 
a  gnawing  hunger. 

Among  the  studies  of  the  district  school,  I  must  place  before 
all,  in  value,  the  reading-book.  We  used  “The  National  Pre¬ 
ceptor”  (not  “The  American  Preceptor,”  which  was  an  older 
book).  This  was  one  of  the  several  excellent  collections  made  by 
the  Rev.  John  Pierpont.  In  the  old-fashioned  country  school,  the 
children  generally  learned  to  read  by  means  of  the  spelling-book, 
and  then  took  up  the  same  reading-book  with  the  highest  class, 
though  they  sometimes  used  an  intermediate  reader.  Although 
this  practice  brought  together  the  best  readers  and  the  poorest, 
and  forced  all  to  read  much  that  was  beyond  the  depth  of  the 
most  intelligent  pupils,  yet  there  was  the  very  great  advantage 
that  the  whole  school  read  and  assisted  in  reading  every  year 
the  finest  gems  of  thought  and  expression  in  the  language.  I 
cannot  but  regard  the  practice  of  the  country  school  as,  on  the 
whole,  vastly  more  beneficial  than  that  of  the  modern  graded 
city  school,  which  allows  the  majority  of  its  pupils  to  leave 
school  without  ever  reading,  or  even  hearing  read,  the  fine  prose 
and  poetry  of  the  highest  readers.  The  genius  of  a  great  author 
will  far  more  than  conpensate  for  his  difficulties.  The  pupil 
will  doubtless  fail  to  understand  even  one-half  of  what  he  reads. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


but  the  fraction  that  be  does  understand  will  be  worth  far  more 
than  the  weak  colloquial  English  pieces  that  fill  the  lower 
readers.  It  is  very  hard  to  make  otherwise  enlightened  educa¬ 
tors  see  the  fact  that  there  is  no  gain  in  substituting  for  a  valua¬ 
ble  work,  which  is  so  difficult  that  it  cannot  be  understood,  a 
work  which  contains  little  or  nothing  worth  understanding. 

From  my  eighth  to  my  tenth  year  I  spent  several  terms  in 
the  city  schools  of  Providence,  Ehode  Island.  There  I  found 
what  Mr.  Hale  calls  the  “martinet  ”  system.  Much  more  pains 
was  expended  in  causing  pupils  to  mark  time  with  precision  than 
in  marching  forward  toward  any  definite  object.  I  came  to  detest 
city  schools  very  bitterly,  because  I  loved  individual  freedom 
and  hated  mere  forms  as  such.  I  desired  to  come  at  the  sub¬ 
stance  of  the  study,  and  grudged  the  time  which  seemed  to  me 
wasted  over  the  mechanism  of  it.  For  a  long  time,  we  were 
required  to  commit  to  memory  the  questions  of  our  catechetical 
geography,  and  repeat  them  word  for  word  in  their  exact  order, 
as  the  “  analysis  ”  of  the  lesson.  Little  or  no  time  was  spent  on 
the  answers  to  the  questions,  and  there  was  no  discussion  what¬ 
ever  of  the  real  subject.  Moreover,  there  was  frequent  corporal 
punishment,  and  sometimes  it  reached  a  degree  of  cruelty  that  I 
shudder  to  remember.  The  high  school  of  that  city  imposed  on 
the  grammar  schools  a  severe  standard  of  preparation  in  those 
studies  that  were  required  for  admission.  This  kept  back  the 
pupils  of  the  classes  in  the  lower  schools  in  order  to  make  them 
more  “thorough,”  as  it  is  called.  The  direct  result  of  this  was 
the  “  marking  time  ”  system,  in  which  mechanical  memory  was 
almost  the  only  faculty  required  or  much  cultivated.  I  mention 
this  here  because  I  have  seen  very  often,  in  my  experience  with 
school  systems,  East  and  West,  the  same  difiiculty.  A  too  high 
standard  of  admission  to  the  high  schools  is  sure  to  turn  the 
grammar  schools  into  cramming  factories  on  a  large  scale.  In 
order  to  make  sure  of  passing  her  pupils  into  the  next  grade,  the 
teacher  is  compelled  to  rely  on  the  mechanical  elements  of  in¬ 
struction,  because  she  can  manage  to  control  these,  and  these 
alone. 

While  I  have  never  revised  my  judgment  in  regard  to  the 
intellectual  reSuUs  of  the  martinet  system  of  instruction,  I 

• 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


have  very  materially  modified  my  opinion  of  its  strict  discipline. 
The  great  object  of  all  education  is  to  fit  the  individual  to  com¬ 
bine  with  his  fellow-men.  His  intellectual  training  should 
enable  him  to  master  the  arts  of  intercommunication  and  give 
him  the  conventional  view  of  the  world.  Each  individual  must 
be  taught  how  his  fellow-citizens  look  at  things  and  events,  or 
else  he  cannot  understand  their  actions  nor  direct  his  own  to  any 
good  purpose.  It  is  still  more  important  that  the  individual  ac¬ 
quire  the  necessary  practical  habits.  He  must  learn  how  to  work 
in  company,  and  for  this  purpose  there  are  required  certain  semi¬ 
mechanical  moral  virtues,  such  as  regularity,  punctuality,  and 
seK-restraint,  in  whatever  will  encroach  on  the  province  of  one’s 
neighbor — just  such  virtues  as  strict  school  discipline  teaches  to 
perfection.  Concerted  action  at  the  word  of  command,  strict 
obedience,  perfect  military  discipline,  are  qualities  that  are  of 
special  use  in  our  modern  urban  civilization,  in  which  the  rail¬ 
road,  the  telegraph,  and  machinery  in  general  play  so  great  a 
role.  But  the  mechanical  phase  of  morals,  if  cultivated  exclu¬ 
sively,  and  so  as  to  dwarf  the  intellectual  side  of  education,  which 
demands  above  all  things  spontaneity  and  free  insight,  will  fall 
sadly  short  of  meeting  the  modern  requirements.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  martinet  system  fails  sadly  on  the  intellectual 
side  of  its  training.  But  the  reaction  against  it  goes  too  far. 

Connected  with  my  school  education  in  the  public  schools 
after  the  age  of  thirteen  was  a  series  of  terms  at  boarding  schools, 
one  each  year.  I  attended  various  Hew  England  academies,  say 
one  term  each  at  five  different  academies.  The  most  noteworthy 
intellectual  acquisition  that  I  made  during  the  first  of  these  terms 
was  a  knowledge  of  natural  philosophy.  I  did  not  take  it  up  as 
a  regular  study,  but  borrowing  a  text-book  of  one  of  my  school¬ 
mates,  I  read  it  under  my  desk  in  school  hours  after  hastily  learn¬ 
ing  my  other  lessons.  This  book  specially  interested  me  in  hy¬ 
draulics,  and  I  made  force-pumps  and  fire-engines  on  a  small  scale. 
At  my  second  academy  perhaps  the  most  important  influence  was 
Milton’s  “  Paradise  Lost,”  which  we  used  as  a  book  for  studies  in 
syntax.  I  was  entranced  with  its  sublime  poetic  form,  and 
eagerly  studied  its  view  of  the  world.  Calvinist  as  I  was  by 
family  and  church  education.  In  the  third  academy,  being  then 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


at  the  age  of  fifteen,  I  began  Greek  grammar.  A  year  before 
this  I  had  become  greatly  interested  in  Edward  Daniel  Clarke’s 
“  Travels  through  Greece,  Egypt,  and  the  Holy  Land,”  one  of  his 
six  volumes  being  in  our  small  home  library.  I  was  excited  by 
his  descriptions  of  Greece  and  Asia  Minor,  and  a  curious  desire 
possessed  me  to  read,  or  at  least  to  pronounce,  the  Greek  quota¬ 
tions  contained  in  the  book.  I  took  Webster’s  octavo  Diction¬ 
ary,  that  gave  a  few  derivations  of  words  from  the  Greek,  and 
by  careful  comparison  made  out  the  value  of  each  letter  in  the 
Greek  alphabet,  and,  as  I  afterward  learned,  correctly,  according 
to  the  English  method  of  pronunciation. 

I  was  beginning  to  be  interested  in  astronomy,  and  purchas¬ 
ing  of  a  spectacle-maker  two  lenses,  of  focuses  respectively,  one 
and  thirty  inches,  I  fixed  them  in  a  tin  tube  and  commenced 
observations  on  various  objects,  terrestrial  and  celestial.  I  made 
or  put  together  afterward  several  achromatic  telescopes  of  small 
size,  buying  the  lenses  and  mounting  them  in  cheap  tubes  of  my 
own  contrivance. 

On  my  fifth  term  away,  at  seventeen,  I  entered  the  Phil¬ 
lips  Academy,  at  Andover,  Massachusetts,  then  under  the  prin- 
cipalship  of  Dr.  S.  H.  Taylor.  I  had  never  before  met  a 
disciplinary  force  that  swept  me  completely  off  my  feet  and 
overcame  my  capricious  will.  My  intellectual  work  had  been 
all  hap-hazard,  a  matter  of  mere  inclination.  I  now  began  to 
hear  a  great  deal  about  mental  discipline  and  to  see  manly  in¬ 
dustry.  I  took  myself  to  studying  in  earnest,  and  tried  to  see 
how  many  hours  of  persistent  industry  I  could  accomplish  each 
day.  In  my  short  stay  at  Andover  I  gained  more  than  at  any 
other  school,  and  have  always  highly  revered  its  discipline  and 
instruction. 

I  taught  school  in  the  country  for  two  winter  sessions,  after 
my  third  and  fifth  academical  terms  respectively.  I  used  my 
winter  evenings  in  study.  During  the  first  winter,  at  the  age 
of  sixteen  years,  I  mastered  geometry  and  trigonometry.  The 
second  winter  I  devoted  entirely  to  Locke’s  “  Essay  on  the  Human 
Understanding,”  having  read  somewhere  that  Franklin  prided 
himself  on  reading  that  work  at  my  age.  At  first  it  was  incom¬ 
parably  dull  reading,  but  bringing  into  requisition  the  “  disci- 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


pline  of  mind  ”  tliat  I  liad  acquired  at  Andover,  I  soon  became 
really  interested  in  Locke’s  refutation  of  innate  ideas.  When, 
three  years  afterward,  I  came  to  read  Cousin’s  criticism  of  Locke, 
I  took  fire  in  every  part  of  my  soul,  from  the  intense  interest 
aroused  in  me  at  seeing  the  positions  established  by  Locke  with 
so  much  tedious  iteration  overthrown  by  brilliant  and  over¬ 
whelming  arguments  based  on  keen  psychological  distinctions. 

My  study  of  Latin  and  Greek  had  occupied  four  terms,  one 
each  year  at  some  academy,  but  I  had  used  much  time  in  review¬ 
ing  those  studies  when  at  home  working  on  the  farm. 

In  the  fall  of  1854  I  entered  Yale  College.  My  term  at 
Andover  had  taught  me  how  to  work  patiently  and  ploddingly. 
At  Yale,  I  learned  how  to  perform  a  large  task  in  a  brief  time. 
There  was  a  written  examination  at  the  close  of  each  term  for 
which  preparation  must  be  made  by  private  reviews.  To  be  able 
to  go  over  one’s  entire  work  for  the  term  in  two  or  three  days  of 
study,  brought  into  discipline  a  new  power,  usually  called  the 
power  to  “  cram.”  Of  all  my  school  disciplines  I  have  found  this 
one  the  most  useful.  The  ability  to  throw  one’s  self  upon  a  dif¬ 
ficulty  with  several  times  his  ordinary  working  power  is  required 
again  and  again  in  practical  life  on  meeting  any  considerable 
obstacles. 

My  study  of  mathematics  at  college  was  rendered  of  no  ac¬ 
count  by  the  fact  that  I  had  gone  over  and  comprehended  the 
entire  geometry  and  trigonometry  by  myself  two  years  previous 
to  entering,  and  thus  the  freshness  and  keen  zest  of  first  learning 
was  dulled,  and  I  fell  into  lax  habits  of  study  in  mathematics 
which  I  did  not  afterward  correct.  At  Andover,  I  had  begun 
to  read  Humboldt’s  “  Cosmos,”  and  grew  to  be  deeply  interested 
in  natural  science.  I  began  to  disparage  the  study  of  Latin  and 
Greek  as  dead  languages.  Language  itself  was  “  only  an  artificial 
product  of  the  human  mind.”  I  wished  to  know  nature.  This 
thought  came  to  possess  me  more  and  more  until  it  finally  over¬ 
mastered  me.  About  the  middle  of  the  junior  year  I  withdrew 
from  my  connection  with  the  college,  full  of  dissatisfaction  with 
its  course  of  study,  and  impatient  for  the  three  “  moderns  ” — 
modern  science,  modern  literature,  and  modern  history. 

Soon  after  this  I  discovered  that  my  slender  knowledge  of 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Latin  and  Greek  was  my  chief  instrument  in  the  acquirement  of 
new  ideas.  I  found  that  the  words  in  the  English  language 
which  are  used  in  the  expression  and  communication  of  general 
ideas  are  derived  almost  entirely  from  the  classic  languages. 
Knowing  the  literal  meaning  of  the  roots,  I  was  able  to  get  the 
full  force  of  the  English  vocabulary  used  for  science  and  real 
thought.  Some  years  afterward,  too,  I  came  upon  a  more  im¬ 
portant  insight.  I  saw  that  our  entire  modem  civilization  is 
derivative,  resting  on  the  Greek  for  its  aesthetic  and  scientific 
forms,  and  on  the  Eoman  for  the  forms  of  its  political  and 
legal  life.  The  frame-work  of  civilization  being  thus  borrowed, 
modern  culture  has  likewise  to  learn  to  know  itself  by  studying, 
so  to  speak,  its  embryology  in  Latin  and  Greek.  In  our  schools 
we  put  on  for  awhile  the  spiritual  clothing  of  the  Greeks  and 
Eomans  and  look  out  upon  the  world  through  their  eyes.  By  so 
doing  we  acquire  an  ability,  not  otherwise  attainable,  of  analyz¬ 
ing  and  comprehending  our  own  civilization. 

Here  I  close  my  record,  although  it  seems  to  me  that  my  real 
education  began  later  in  life.  All  that  I  have  here  described 
belongs,  as  it  were,  to  a  sort  of  antemundane  soul-wandering. 


W.  T.  Haeeis. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


It  is  witli  some  hesitation  that  I  accede  to  the  editor’s  request 
that  I  would  tell,  in  a  manner  “frankly  personal,”  how  I  was 
educated.  But,  having  often  expressed  the  wish  that  the  young 
might  profit  more  by  the  experience  of  their  seniors,  I  will  pro¬ 
ceed  with  the  narrative,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  not  be  without 
benefit  to  some  one. 

My  parents  were  determined  to  give  to  their  children  far  bet¬ 
ter  advantages  than  they  themselves  had  possessed.  They  were, 
both  of  them,  persons  of  sterling  moral  worth,  great  force  of 
character,  and  strong  native  powers.  On  the  death  of  my 
grandfather,  the  earliest  settled  physician  of  Salisbury,  H.  H., 
my  father  had  been  thrown  forth,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  to 
make  his  own  way  in  the  world.  By  a  rare  union  of  integrity, 
energy,  skill,  prudence,  and  executive  ability,  he  early  placed 
himself,  and  always  remained,  in  easy  circumstances  as  a  coun¬ 
try  trader.  He  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-seven,  widely  and 
deeply  respected  for  all  the  qualities  of  a  noble  manhood.  My 
education  began  in  his  influence  and  example,  on  which  I  would 
gladly  say  more.  It  is  relevant  to  my  purpose  to  mention  that 
though  largely  self-taught  himself,  he  aided  two  of  his  younger 
brothers  through  college,  and  determined  to  give  each  of  his  five 
sons  a  college  education.  Three  of  us  accepted  the  offer.  My 
mother  was  in  her  sphere  fully  the  equal  of  my  father,  and  my 
admiration  for  both  of  them  deepens  with  my  advancing  years. 
I  have  no  distinct  recollection  of  a  time  when  I  could  not  read. 
I  remember  my  mother’s  promising  me  that  as  soon  as  I  should 
have  read  through  the  Bible  I  should  have  a  present  of  the 
book ;  and  I  still  possess  the  copy,  with  my  name  written  by  my 
father  when  I  was  eight  years  old.  The  reading  must  have  been 
perfunctory,  but  it  was  done  after  a  sort. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


My  parents  proceeded  from  tlie  outset  on  the  principle  that 
nothing  should  interfere  with  my  studies.  In  the  days  of  my 
childhood,  however,  six  hours  a  day  well  spent  in  the  school 
were  wisely  considered  enough  of  study  for  that  period  of 
growth  and  immaturity.  Out  of  school  hours  and  on  the  Satur¬ 
day  half -holidays,  I  got  my  exercise  and  health  as  naturally  as 
a  colt  does.  We  had  our  ball  games  of  various  kinds,  quoits, 
wrestling,  skating,  running,  riding,  and  a  good  deal  of  general 
rough-and-tumble,  giving  me  once  a  dislocated  elbow,  many  hard 
knocks,  some  narrow  escapes,  but  abundant  health  and  consti¬ 
tution  for  a  life  of  work. 

I  early  derived  great  benefit  from  the  general  influence  of 
the  place.  Salisbury  was  then  somewhat  noted  among  country 
towns  for  its  intelligence,  its  social  life,  and  the  number  of  its 
college  students.  Here  was  an  old  academy,  now  extinct,  with 
a  small  endowment,  taught  by  a  series  of  men  like  Judge 
Eichard  Fletcher  and  Professor  Nathaniel  H.  Carter;  and  a  place 
of  training  for  many  prominent  men,  among  whom  were  Ezekiel 
Webster,  William  P.  Fessenden,  John  A.  Dix,  and  Ichabod  Bart¬ 
lett.  The  public  or  “  district  ”  school  was  taught  in  winter 
largely  by  students  of  Dartmouth  College,  and  in  summer  by 
young  women  of  the  best  education  that  the  times  afforded. 
These  were  quickening  influences  felt  through  the  whole  com¬ 
munity. 

Vulgarisms  and  slang  were  resolutely  excluded  from  my 
father’s  house,  and  my  parents,  though  limited  in  their  early 
education,  were  almost  wholly  free  from  the  supposed  New  Eng¬ 
land  provincialisms.  I  did  not  hear  from  them,  nor  often  from 
others,  the  clipped  participle  (in’  for  ing)  nor  the  Yankee  eou; 
and  I  may  say  that  the  provincialisms  of  language  and  pronun¬ 
ciation  which  the  story  tellers  have  so  lavishly  ascribed  to  New 
Englanders,  does  not,  so  far  as  my  observation  goes,  belong  to 
the  classes  to  whom  it  is  often  imputed.  It  is  caricature  and  not 
portraiture  of  those  classes.  Indeed,  much  of  it  cannot  be  found 
anywhere,  except  by  laborious  research.  A  very  large  part  of 
the  peculiarities  of  the  Biglow  papers  is  unknown  to  me,  except 
as  I  have  read  it  in  these  and  similar  productions,  although  many 
of  the  words  and  idioms  could  have  been  found  among  the  most 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


illiterate,  and  probably  all  of  them  somewhere.  In  the  large 
district  school  that  I  first  attended,  the  children  of  the  whole 
village  were  carefully  and  correctly  taught.  I  attended  this 
district  school  in  winter  till  I  was  about  twelve  years  old,  leav¬ 
ing  it  in  summer  for  the  academy  some  three  years  earlier. 
The  district  school  grounded  me  well  in  the  primary  branches. 
The  grammar  teaching  alone  was  mechanical;  the  rest  was 
thorough.  The  important  branch  of  spelling  seems  to  me  to 
have  received  more  effectual  attention  then,  in  the  schools  gen¬ 
erally,  than  at  the  present  time.  Since  I  was  twelve  years 
old  I  have  seldom  had  to  correct  my  spelling  of  any  word 
that  I  have  had  occasion  to  use.  I  deem  it  an  important 
point. 

My  father’s  book-case  contained  some  valuable  books,  the  most 
stimulating  of  which  was  Boswell’s  “Johnson.”  I  got  a  good 
deal  out  of  “The  Analectic  Magazine,”  pored  over  Gregory’s 
“Dictionary  of  the  Arts  and  Sciences,”  made  my  way  through 
Scott’s  “Life  of  Napoleon,”  and  devoured  “  The  Scottish  Chiefs  ” 
and  “  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  ”  at  so  early  an  age  that  I  supposed 
them  as  veritable  history  as  Scott’s  “Napoleon.”  The  village  li¬ 
brary  extended  my  reading  to  “  Don  Quixote,”  Cook’s  “  Yoyages,” 
and  other  books  which  made  less  impression,  including  a  taste  of 
“  The  Spectator.”  My  mother’s  two  younger  sisters,  highly  edu¬ 
cated  for  their  day,  and  associate  teachers  with  Miss  Grant  and 
Miss  Lyon,  helped  me  somewhat  in  their  vacations  by  making 
me  read  to  them  aloud.  I  thus  made  my  first  acquaintance  with 
“  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.”  It  was  a  thoughtful  thing  in  them. 

About  the  age  of  nine  I  began  in  summer  to  attend  the  acad¬ 
emy,  getting  the  benefit  of  a  walk  of  a  mile  and  three  quarters 
each  way.  I  began  at  once  the  study  of  Latin.  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  thoroughly  drilled  in  all  the  forms  of  the  language 
and  the  principles  of  syntax,  but  without  the  necessity  of  mem¬ 
orizing  all  that  wearisome  mass  of  subordinate  statements  and 
technicalities  into  which  it  afterward  became  the  custom  to 
shred  away  the  underlying  principles,  conceal  the  genius  of  the 
language,  and  extinguish  the  best  uses  of  classical  study.  One 
of  the  most  valuable  of  my  lessons  I  received  in  my  second  sum¬ 
mer  at  the  academy,  under  a  new  preceptor,  when,  after  hearing 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


me  recite  five  minutes,  lie  sliut  tlie  book  with  a  slap  tbat  made 
mj  cheeks  burn,  and  sent  me  to  my  seat  to  try  again.  It  was 
my  first  and  last  experience  of  the  kind,  and  I  shall  always  re¬ 
member  with  gratitude  the  name  of  John  J.  Sanborn,  the  teacher 
who  did  it.  He  had  also  a  way  of  occasionally  reading  aloud 
a  short  passage  of  poetry,  and  ascertaining  how  much  of  it  we 
could  repeat  from  a  single  hearing.  I  have  wished  that  more  en¬ 
couragement  to  memorize  choice  literature  had  been  given  in  the 
course  of  my  training.  I  early  learned  in  the  Sunday  school  to 
commit  large  portions  of  Scripture;  but  none  of  my  teachers 
suggested  the  desirableness  of  committing  choice  passages  of 
prose  or  poetry,  except  for  the  purpose  of  declamation.  It  was 
a  great  oversight. 

After  two  summers  at  the  Salisbury  Academy,  my  experience 
was  enlarged  by  a  transfer  to  the  academy  at  Boscawen,  which 
was  then  in  a  more  flourishing  condition.  Here  I  began  upon 
the  Greek,  and  received  a  strong  intellectual  impetus  from  the 
personal  influence  of  the  principal,  Jarvis  Gregg,  afterward  Pro¬ 
fessor  Gregg,  who  died  too  early  to  make  the  mark  which  he  was 
sure  to  have  made  had  he  lived.  His  intellectual  activity,  wide 
reading,  refined  taste,  social  turn,  and  lively  interest  in  young 
men,  left  a  deeper  impress  on  many  of  those  under  his  instruction 
than  probably  he  ever  imagined.  The  quickening  influence  of 
such  men  is  of  incalculable  value. 

The  following  winter  a  very  different  experience  awaited  me. 
I  was  placed  under  the  private  tuition  of  a  young  clergyman  not 
properly  qualified  for  the  duty.  The  time,  however,  was  not 
wholly  lost.  My  brother  and  I,  his  two  pupils,  soon  discov¬ 
ered  his  deficiency,  and  I  think  we  studied  all  the  harder  to 
catch  him  tripping.  We  sometimes  specially  prepared  ourselves 
with  questions  of  construction  or  syntax,  in  order  to  watch  his 
puzzled  face  as  he  vainly  scratched  his  head,  and  to  enjoy  his 
look  of  relief  as  we  cautiously  helped  him  out.  Though  he  lived 
to  a  green  old  age,  I  think  he  never  quite  understood  the  case. 
Certainly  he  always  remembered  us  as  good  boys  and  his  good 
pupils. 

Two  years  of  steady  work  at  Pinkerton  Academy,  Derry, 
N.  H.,  then  one  of  the  best  fitting-schools  in  New  England,  com- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


pleted  my  preparation  for  college.  Mr.  Abel  F.  Hildreth,  the 
principal,  was  proud  of  the  number  and  quality  of  the  young 
men  be  bad  fitted  for  various  New  England  colleges.  I  recall 
nothing  of  special  note,  however,  except  the  delicate  mode  in 
which  Mr.  Hildreth  once  stimulated  me  to  better  methods,  by 
putting  into  my  hands,  without  saying  a  word,  a  translation  from 
Homer  written  by  his  former  pupil,  Samuel  H.  Taylor,  admira¬ 
ble  alike  for  its  mechanical  execution  and  its  careful  renderings. 
I  understood  the  hint. 

I  was  ready  for  college  before  I  was  fifteen  years  old.  I 
was  too  young ;  but  it  was  a  perplexing  question  what  to  do  with 
me,  and  so  I  entered.  I  had  studied  as  much  mathematics  as 
is  now  required  by  New  England  colleges,  and  had  read  more 
Latin  and  Greek  than  is  now  called  for — differently,  to  be  sure, 
but  not  of  necessity  unprofitably.  The  age  of  excessive  techni¬ 
calities  had  not  arrived,  nor  the  age  of  random  acquisition  by  the 
student.  But  there  certainly  was  a  robust  scholarship  and  vig¬ 
orous  mental  training  which  would  seem  to  have  made  as  clear 
and  sound  reasoners,  as  forceful  thinkers,  and  as  strong  profes¬ 
sional  men  as  have  been  formed  since.  Improvements  have  been 
and  will  be  made  in  those  methods ;  but  the  last  word  has  not 
yet  been  said  on  the  subject  of  liberal  education. 

My  youth  in  college  might  have  operated  more  to  my  dis¬ 
advantage  than  it  actually  did.  In  some  studies  I  could  have 
profited  more  had  I  been  older.  But  at  a  given  age  later  I  was 
quite  as  well  able  to  grapple  with  them  as  if  I  had  entered  col¬ 
lege  older.  It  actually  brought  me  earlier  to  my  life-work. 
There  was  the  customary  and  grave  danger  with  very  young 
students  of  being  led  astray.  My  safeguard  in  college  was  the 
habit  of  diligent  application  to  work  and  to  duty,  in  which  I 
had  been  thoroughly  trained.  Let  what  would  happen,  I  got 
my  lessons.  At  the  same  time,  throughout  my  college  course  I 
studied  on,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  without  a  particle  of  what 
is  commonly  called  ambition.  It  was  a  complete  suprise  to  me 
to  be  told,  at  the  end  of  freshman  year,  that  my  rank  was  first. 
My  nearest  rival,  whom  I  slightly  outranked  to  the  end  of  the 
course,  was,  then'  and  always,  one  of  my  best  friends.  It  was 
the  late  admirable  Dr.  E.  E.  Peaslee.  He  had  a  poorer  prepara- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


tion  and  more  delicate  health  than  I,  though  some  years  my 
senior.  In  some  of  the  later  studies  his  age  gave  him  the  ad¬ 
vantage.  I  remember,  as  an  incident  of  our  college  life,  that 
when  Doctor  Lord,  the  president,  urged  upon  the  students  his 
favorite  scheme  of  abolishing  all  appointments  founded  on 
scholarship,  I  was  one  of  only  two  men  in  my  class'  that  voted 
against  the  scheme. 

In  my  freshman  year  I  committed  the  mistake  of  devoting 
all  my  leisure  to  novel-reading,  influenced  by  the  suggestion  of 
a  senior,  whom  I  then  regarded  with  more  veneration  than  since. 
I  now  advise  college  boys  to  let  their  reading  center  largely 
around  their  studies,  thus  strengthening  both  reading  and  study. 
Of  the  several  portions  of  my  college  work,  there  was  one  that 
I  remember  as  peculiarly  profitable.  It  was  under  the  accom¬ 
plished  Professor  Haddock.  He  had  us  read  portions  of  Quin¬ 
tilian  and  of  Tacitus  as  a  rhetorical  exercise.  He  was  an  ex¬ 
cellent  Latin  scholar,  and  had  a  singularly  pure  English  style. 
He  required  us  first  to  translate,  and  then  to  defend  our  transla¬ 
tion  at  all  points.  It  must  be  not  only  exact  rendering,  but  idio¬ 
matic  English.  Synonymous  words  were  thus  passed  in  review ; 
and  the  whole  process  became  an  admirable  training  alike  in 
the  accurate  use  of  language  and  the  nicest  discrimination  of 
thought.  It  exhibited  one  of  the  capabilities  of  classic  study. 
I  have  seen  the  experiment  tried  with  a  college  class  in  “  De¬ 
mosthenes  on  the  Crown,”  on  a  still  broader  and  higher  range, 
including  the  subject-matter,  and  with  admirable  effect. 

After  graduation,  my  education  still  went  on,  while  I  was 
myself  an  educator.  I  was  offered  the  principalship  of  a  coun¬ 
try  grammar  school  in  Vermont.  Conscious  of  immaturity,  I 
worked  harder  than  ever  to  be  well  up  in  the  studies  I  had  to 
teach.  Among  other  things,  I  was  to  give  experimental  lectures 
on  chemistry,  of  which  we  had  had  a  mere  smattering  in  college. 
I  worked  it  up  till  I  had  mastered  the  chemistry  of  that  day,  and 
gave,  as  I  thought,  a  more  satisfactory  course  of  lectures  than  I 
had  heard.  Of  course,  I  ran  some  risks  and  had  some  narrow 
escapes  in  my  experiments,  and  not  seldom  toiled  at  my  task  till 
midnight  and  far  beyond.  I  also  entered  on  a  course  of  histori¬ 
cal  reading,  imposing  on  myself  the  condition  of  giving  a  full  oral 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


statement  of  tlie  contents  of  eacli  chapter  before  entering  upon 
the  next.  These  were  two  profitable  years.  And  I  should 
mention,  in  passing,  that  I  had  taught  two  short  winter  schools 
while  I  was  in  college,  and  had  endeavored  to  turn  the  time  to 
account  somewhat  in  the  same  way,  utilizing  my  college  studies 
both  for  the  benefit  of  my  schools  and  myself.  One  other  in¬ 
fluence  was  of  great  value  to  me  while  principal  of  the  gram¬ 
mar  school.  I  was  put  forward  to  be  superintendent  of  the 
Sunday  school,  frequently  to  take  charge  of  social  religious 
meetings,  to  make  temperance  addresses,  and  the  like.  I  made 
it  a  point  never  to  shrink  from  any  such  duty  for  which  good 
judges  thought  me  fitted  and  to  which  I  was  called ;  and  though 
conscious  of  short-comings,  I  found  it  a  valuable  part  of  my 
training. 

At  the  age  of  twenty  I  was  invited  to  a  tutorship  in  Dart¬ 
mouth  College.  Here,  besides  the  laborious  effort  at  perfect 
preparation  of  the  lessons,  I  gave  my  leisure  to  metaphysical 
studies.  Cousin’s  influence  being  then  predominant.  At  this 
time  I  more  fully  learned  the  art  of  independent  investigation. 
In  my  vacation  I  studied  Italian  by  myself,  and  read  most  of 
Tasso. 

From  the  college  tutorship  I  went  to  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,  where  I  found  the  enthusiasm  of  Professors  Stuart, 
Park,  and  B.  B.  Edwards  peculiarly  stimulating.  So  also  were 
the  companionship  and  keen  discussions,  public  and  private,  of 
my  student  associates,  among  whom  were  several  men  of  emi¬ 
nent  ability.  At  this  time  the  writings  of  Carlyle  and  Coleridge 
were  making  a  deep  impression  upon  thoughtful  young  men ;  and 
while  I  did  not  adopt  all  their  opinions,  I  acknowledge  a  great 
indebtedness  to  them  at  that  stage  of  my  studies.  But  one  of 
the  most  powerfully  educating  influences  to  which  I  was  ever 
subjected  came  from  Professor  Park,  then  in  the  chair  of  sacred 
rhetoric.  The  exercises  under  him  in  the  construction  and  criti¬ 
cism  of  plans  and  sermons,  the  sharp  discriminations,  careful 
analyses,  and  sometimes  complete  demolition  of  a  discourse,  fol¬ 
lowed  by  a  masterly  reconstruction  of  the  whole  theme  by  the 
professor,  gave  me'  a  discipline  and  an  idea  of  the  true  functions 
of  rhetoric — as  not  merely  negative  and  repressive,  but  develop- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


ing  and  constructive — whicli  I  wish  could  be  universally  real¬ 
ized,  bnt  which,  alas,  almost  never  is. 

In  the  theological  seminary  I  extended  my  studies  beyond 
the  range  of  the  prescribed  course,  into  Greek  philosophy.  And 
I  may  add  that,  after  entering  the  ministry,  I  made  it  a  point 
regularly  to  maintain,  as  far  as  possible,  the  habits  and  studies 
of  the  seminary.  The  result  of  my  training,  nearly  up  to  the 
time  of  my  professional  life,  had  been  such  a  balancing  of  intel¬ 
lectual  work  that  I  could  have  entered  with  nearly  equal  facility 
on  any  one  of  several  courses  of  life — four  or  five  of  which  had 
been  proposed  to  me  by  different  advisers.  After  two  and  a  half 
years  in  pastoral  work,  I  was  called  to  the  chair  of  Intellectual 
Philosophy  in  Western  Eeserve  College,  where  I  continued  my 
education  by  a  large  amount  of  collateral  study,  seldom  termi¬ 
nating  till  late  at  night.  And  my  observation  and  experience 
lead  me  to  regard  some  professional  training  and  some  amount  of 
professional  practice  as  an  almost  indispensable  preliminary  to  a 
college  professorship,  to  broaden  the  mind  and  sphere  of  the  pro¬ 
fessor,  and  prevent  the  narrowness  of  thought,  method,  and 
range,  which  is  so  apt  to  characterize  the  pedagogue.  When,  at  a 
later  period,  I  was  constrained  to  occupy  a  chair  in  a  theological 
seminary,  it  was  owing  to  the  studies  I  had  maintained  and 
prosecuted  throughout  my  professional  life. 

I  have  thus  briefly  stated  all  that  occurs  to  me  as  likely  to 
be  of  use  to  others,  in  regard  to  the  process  of  my  education. 
As  I  look  back  upon  the  history,  in  addition  to  the  suggestions 
that  might  naturally  occur,  two  or  three  impressions  remain  pro¬ 
foundly  fixed  in  my  mind.  One  is,  that,  with  whatever  op¬ 
portunities,  all  higher  education  is  essentially  self-education. 
Teachers  do  not  make  the  scholar.  The  impulse  comes  chiefly 
from  within;  and  the  student  becomes  the  scholar  when  he 
ceases  to  confine  himself  to  prescribed  tasks  or  previous  limits, 
and  spontaneously  reaches  out  beyond.  Another  strong  impres¬ 
sion  made  upon  me  is,  that  the  best  preliminary  preparation  for 
even  the  studies  of  a  specialist  is  a  liberal  education.  Such  an 
education  connects  him  with  the  wide  circle  of  thought  and 
knowledge,  and  saves  him  from  narrowness  and  hobbies.  The 
man  who  can  do  one  thing  best  is  usually  a  man  who  could  have 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


done  other  things  well.  It  has  also  been  my  observation  that 
such  a  liberal  education  as  will  fit  the  man  in  due  time  to  grap¬ 
ple  most  effectually  with  any  specialty,  consists  more  in  training 
than  in  acquisition.  The  man  that  is  thoroughly  master  of  his 
own  powers  will  master  any  sphere  or  theme  to  which  he  is 
called. 


S.  C.  Baktlett. 


A 

HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 

To  avoid  fatalistic  conclusions  and  tlie  slimy  pit  of  ma¬ 
terialism,  we  need  not  deny  tlie  plain  facts  of  heredity  and 
environment.  My  education  began  in  the  cradle,  and  back  of 
it.  Though  my  father  died  when  I  was  but  three  years  old,  and 
his  name  has  been  with  me  little  more  than  a  vague  tradition,  I 
can  now  see  how  largely  he  determined  my  individuality  and 
history,  even  more,  perhaps,  than  did  my  mother. 

These  parents  were  of  the  God-fearing  New  England  stock, 
mingling  in  their  veins  the  blood  of  various  old  Puritan  families, 
such  as  the  Davenports,  Griswolds  and  Edwardses.  In  their 
revolt  from  “  the  standing  order,”  a  revolt  in  which  they  became 
Baptists  and  Democrats,  their  Puritanic  sternness  was,  I  fancy,  a 
good  deal  softened  and  liberalized.  My  father’s  church,  organ¬ 
ized  under  his  own  ministry,  and  of  which  he  remained  pastor 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  until  his  death,  was  a  kind  of  cave  of 
Adullam,  in  which  the  more  restless  and  progressive  spirits  of 
the  region  found  refuge.  The  comparatively  free  atmosphere  of 
my  home  and  church  must  have  unconsciously  fostered  a  dis¬ 
position  which  has  always  inclined  me,  if  not  to  see  good  in 
things  evil,  at  least  to  lean  to  the  side  of  charitable  construction. 

The  hard  and  humble  conditions  under  which  my  struggle  for 
existence  began  were  in  striking  contrast  with  those  easy  and 
graceful  environments  which  marked  the  lot  of  most  of  the 
favored  gentlemen  who  have  contributed  to  this  series.  The 
difference,  sixty  years  ago,  between  the  neighborhood  of  Boston 
and  a  remote  Vermont  village  would  form  a  theme  for  an  inter¬ 
esting  essay.  Still,  the  community  into  which  I  was  born  was 
in  no  mean  sense  and  degree  truly  educated  and  educational. 
Though  not  much  unlike  a  thousand  other  communities  in  rural 
New  England,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  was  one  of  the  best 

of  them.  There  Horace  Greeley  learned  the  art  of  printing,  and 
5 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


in  his  autobiography  he  speaks  of  it  in  these  flattering  terms  :  “  I  * 
have  never  since  known  a  community  so  generally  moral,  intelli¬ 
gent,  industrious  and  friendly ;  never  one  where  so  much  good 
was  known,  and  so  little  evil  said,  of  neighbor  by  neighbor.”  It 
is  a  curious  fact  that  George  Jones  and  Francis  Euggles,  founders 
of  the  “New  York  Times,”  tl^e  rival  of  Mr.  Greeley’s  journal, 
both  came  from  Poultney,  as  my  native  town  is  called. 

Archbishop  Hughes  is  reported  to  have  said,  “Give  me  the 
training  of  a  boy  until  he  is  ten,  and  you  may  then  do  what  you 
will  with  him.”  I  am  rather  conscious  that  I  was  essentially 
made  before  I  was  twelve  years  old.  Through  heredity,  and  by 
my  home  and  social  relations,  my  being  had  taken  its  form  and 
pressure,  so  that  all  which  followed  has  done  little  more  than 
enlarge  and  modify  the  flexible  type  thus  determined. 

A  fatherless  household  of  eight  children,  of  which  I  was 
the  youngest  (all  cannot  have  Dr.  Hale’s  happy  middle  place), 
pinched  by  the  res  angusta  domi^  presented  a  rather  forlorn  spec¬ 
tacle,  and  suggested  a  problem  whose  solution  was  beset  with 
painful  uncertainty.  The  kindly  way  in  which  Providence 
worked  out  the  solution  of  that  problem  should  put  to  shame 
the  weak  faith  of  modern  New  England,  whose  native  families 
show,  I  believe,  the  average  of  a  child  and  a  half. 

Unable  to  remember  when  I  could  not  read,  my  first  impres¬ 
sions  of  education,  in  any  formal  and  technical  sense,  begin  with 
a  small  red  brick  school-house  fronting  the  village  green,  a  broad 
plot  which  was  the  play -ground  of  the  little  folks  and  the  parade 
ground  of  the  militia  at  the  great  annual  festival  of  June  “  train¬ 
ing  day.”  Here,  to  a  mixed  throng  of  boys  and  girls,  the  three 
royal  P’s,  and  the  coordinate  G’s — geography  and  grammar — 
were  dispensed  by  male  teachers  in  the  winter  and  female  in  the 
summer.  The  common-school  curriculum  of  those  days  took  no 
higher  range,  unless  some  “  compositions  ”  written  on  the  slate 
should  be  added.  Pupils  were  left,  for  the  most  part,  to  struggle 
with  their  little  tasks  without  much  help  from  their  instructors. 
To  “  learn  the  rules  ”  was  the  great  thing,  the  why  and  where¬ 
fore  apparently  being  regarded  as  of  small  consequence. 

The  first  school-master  of  whom  I  retain  any  remembrance 
was  a  tall,  stern  man,  very  lame,  and  yet  of  powerful  physique. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


He  belonged  to  the  Draconic  period  of  public  school  develop¬ 
ment,  the  last  representative  in  that  community,  I  judge,  of  a 
departing  class  and  age.  With  him  the  terrorizing  system,  under 
which  the  spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-child  maxim  had  been  ab¬ 
surdly  strained,  gave  place  to  the  moral-suasion  theories  and 
cake-and-candy  methods  of  our  own  day.  I  recall  one  instance 
of  the  whimsical  and  brutal  punishments  which  then  prevailed — 
something  over  fifty  years  ago ;  and  it  is  about  the  only  thing 
that  I  do  distinctly  remember  of  my  school  life  under  the  master 
referred  to.  A  large  boy,  probably  some  sixteen  or  seventeen 
years  old,  was  ordered  to  mount  an  old-fashioned  splint-bottomed 
chair  and  bend  over  until  his  finger  should  touch  the  projecting 
round  of  the  seat.  From  some  cause  the  boy  resented  the 
humiliation,  and  refused  to  obey.  For  this  disobedience  he  was 
beaten  with  a  savage  cruelty  that  made  me  shudder  at  the  time, 
and  even  now  causes  my  blood  to  boil.  The  “  dunce-block  ”  had 
disappeared  from  my  school-house,  but  great  ingenuity  was  dis¬ 
played  in  adapting  penal  inflictions  to  minor  offenses.  Stand¬ 
ing  on  one  foot  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  spectacle  of  reproach 
and  of  warning  to  all  beholders,  was  a  frequent  punishment.  I 
have  vivid  cause  to  remember  this,  from  the  fact  that  on  one 
occasion  my  refusal  to  become  a  ‘‘  gazing-stock  ”  involved  me  in 
a  serious  “  unpleasantness  ”  with  the  female  teacher,  as  the  result 
of  which  I  was  ignominiously  subjugated,  if  not  subdued. 

My  next  master,  and  indeed  the  only  one  of  this  early  period 
whom  I  can  be  said  distinctly  to  recall,  belonged  to  the  new  dis¬ 
pensation.  Draco  was  gone  and  Solon  had  come.  As  far  as  I 
can  judge  at  this  distance  of  time,  “  Deacon  ”  Joslin — to  give  him 
the  title  of  his  later  life — was  pretty  nearly  a  model  village 
school-master.  He  was  competent,  wise,  kind,  and  encouraging. 
True,  he  bore  the  rod  in  the  shape  of  a  formidable  little  ruler, 
or  ferule,  under  whose  vigorous  taps  the  fractious  or  truant 
urchin’s  hand  sometimes  smarted.  His  morning  face  could  be 
shadowed  with  clouds  that  boded  disaster,  but  his  justice  was 
always  tempered  with  mercy.  Under  Deacon  Joslin  I  must 
have  made  considerable  progress  in  most  of  the  K’s  and  Gr’s.  He 
even  commended  the  little  attempts  at  doggerel  rhymes  which, 
by  a  sudden  descent  upon  me,  he  sometimes  found  on  my  slate. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


and  to  the  end  of  his  days,  only  four  or  five  years  ago,  would 
surprise  me  by  repeating  some  of  these  callow  versicles. 

My  native  village  possessed  one  educational  institution  which 
was  not,  I  believe,  very  common  in  those  days — a  town  library. 
If  it  did  not  do  much  for  me  in  a  direct  way,  it  certainly  did 
much  for  my  elder  brothers,  for  Horace  Greeley  (as  he  testifies  in 
his  autobiography),  and  for  many  of  the  young  men  and  maidens 
of  the  community.  To  own  the  simple  truth,  I  was  not  yet 
much  of  a  reader,  and  had  no  special  taste  for  reading.  Unlike 
some  of  the  members  of  my  family,  I  had  not  devoured  the  town 
library  and  rummaged  the  book-shelves  of  our  neighbors.  A  sadly 
common-place  child,  and  as  far  removed  as  possible  from  the  pre¬ 
cocity  of  a  little  Stuart  Mill,  I  grew  to  the  age  of  twelve,  eagerly 
intent  on  very  childish  things.  Fondness  for  books  came  later. 

At  the  critical  age  just  mentioned  a  great  change  occurred. 
I  was  taken  up  to  Jerusalem  and  placed  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel. 
In  plain  language,  I  was  spirited  away  by  my  brother,  A.  C. 
Kendrick,  to  Hamilton,  Madison  County,  Kew  York,  and  became 
a  pupil  in  the  Hamilton  Seminary,  wherein  he  was  a  professor. 
Here,  under  the  eye  of  this  brother,  my  Gamaliel,  and  sharing 
his  room,  I  entered  upon  a  course  of  education  proper.  The 
journey  to  Hamilton  was  my  first  venture  beyond  the  circuit  of 
my  native  hills  into  the  wonderland  of  the  great  world.  It  was 
in  1833,  just  as  the  railway  age  was  dawning,  and  my  journey 
was  made  by  the  old-fashioned  stage-coach.  It  led  through  Troy 
and  Albany,  which  seemed  to  my  young  eyes  great  and  splendid 
cities.  They  made  upon  me  an  impression  of  awe  which  Lon¬ 
don,  Paris,  and  Eome  in  long  subsequent  years  failed  to  equal. 
A  youth’s  first  introduction  to  the  wide  world  gives  a  sudden 
expansion  to  his  ideas  and  stimulates  the  educational  process. 

At  Hamilton,  in  an  atmosphere  of  study  and  surrounded  by 
my  brother’s  already  considerable  library,  I  had  great  advan¬ 
tages,  and  had  they  but  continued  I  might  have  made  a  scholar. 
It  is  true,  the  seminary,  under  the  presidency  of  my  venerable 
cousin.  Dr.  Kathaniel  Kendrick,  was  young  and  raw,  and  had 
for  its  single  aim  the  training  of  candidates  for  the  Baptist  min¬ 
istry  by  partial  courses,  some  of  them  very  partial.  The  stu¬ 
dents  were  in  general  grown  men,  the  majority  of  them  more  than 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


twice  my  own  age,  and  among  them  I  was  a  tolerated  intrndei’ 
because  of  my  relation  to  one  of  the  professors.  The  accommo¬ 
dations  were  rude  and  the  fare  was  hard,  consisting  largely  of 
heavy  corn-meal  bread  and  molasses,  with  no  coffee,  and  every¬ 
thing  of  the  coarsest  and  cheapest.  In  those  days  the  vegeta¬ 
rian  craze  was  in  the  air,  and  starvation  commons  were  in  many 
places  thought  essential  to  high  thinking.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
the  schools  and  colleges  annually  graduated  regiments  of  broken- 
down  dyspeptics.  The  religious  tone  of  the  Seminary  was  deeply 
earnest,  but  tinged  with  a  somewhat  gloomy  and  fanatical  zeal. 

This  crude  school  of  the  prophets  long  ago  developed  itself 
into  Madison  University,  a  well-equipped  institution  of  learn¬ 
ing  holding  an  honorable  place  in  the  great  sisterhood  of  col¬ 
leges.  Even  in  the  inchoate  stage  to  which  my  story  belongs, 
the  instruction  which  it  gave  was  of  excellent  quality.  In  my 
own  case  this  instruction  was  supplemented,  especially  in  the 
ancient  languages,  by  private  lessons  from  my  brother,  who,  I 
may  be  allowed  to  say,  has  long  been  recognized  as  a  learned 
Grecian,  and  with  some  propriety  might  tell  the  world  how  he 
was  educated.  The  boys  of  to-day,  with  their  generous  food, 
their  commodious  school  appointments,  their  opportunities  for 
invigorating  recreations,  can  little  understand  the  hardships  which 
many  of  their  fathers  encountered  in  their  rough  academic  life. 

After  a  year  or  so  at  Hamilton,  circumstances  compelled  me 
to  return  for  a  while  to  my  home  in  Vermont.  Dropping  again 
into  the  school  of  my  childhood,  and  placed  in  an  English 
grammar  class,  made  up  of  boys  and  girls  much  my  seniors, 
who  had  been  studying  this  subject  for  years,  I  found  to  my  sur¬ 
prise  that  I  was  easily  the  top  scholar.  I  could  “  out-parse  ”  the 
best  of  them.,  showing  something  like  a  philosophical  knowledge 
of  my  mother  tongue,  though  I  had  hardly  ever  opened  an 
English  grammar.  Of  course  my  little  acquaintance  with  Latin 
explained  it  all.  This  incident  has  always  been  conclusive 
proof  to  me  that  the  conquest  of  one’s  own  language  most  surely 
lies  through  the  conquest  of  a  foreign,  especially  of  an  ancient 
language.  My  experience  as  a  teacher  has  convinced  me  that 
of  all  studies  that  tax  and  trouble  the  youthful  mind,  English 
grammar  is  the  most  mysterious.  If  I  had  a  child  he  should 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


never  be  bothered  with  it  for  a  moment.  He  should  begin  his 
English  in  the  Latin  grammar. 

I  may  note  here,  as  a  warning  to  both  teachers  and  pupils, 
that  a  defective  knowledge  of  arithmetic,  followed  by  an  unfor¬ 
tunate  interruption  in  my  study  of  algebra,  vitiated  my  whole 
mathematical  course.  So  far  as  arithmetic  was  concerned,  the 
fault,  I  think,  was  mainly  that  of  my  teachers,  who  failed  to 
ground  me  thoroughly  in  the  principles,  and  were  content  with 
rote  and  routine.  If  answers  to  the  problems  set  were  returned, 
that  was  enough.  The  pupil’s  real  comprehension  of  the  process 
was  neither  rigorously  demanded  nor  much  tested.  In  this  re¬ 
spect  more  recent  methods  of  teaching  are  much  superior. 

When  I  was  seventeen  it  was  thought  best  that  I  should 
graduate  at  a  regular  college.  Accordingly,  I  took  my  depart¬ 
ure  for  Brown  University,  Providence,  E.  I.,  where  I  matricu¬ 
lated  junior  in  the  autumn  of  1838.  Dr.  Wayland,  the  president, 
was  then  at  the  summit  of  his  fame.  From  my  first  contact 
with  him  his  grave  and  massive  personality  made  a  great  im¬ 
pression  upon  me.  He  was,  I  should  say,  an  educating  force, 
rather  than  a  great  or  inspiring  teacher.  He  was  slow  in  his 
mental  processes,  and  his  method  of  imparting  instruction 
neither  displayed  nor  roused  any  particular  enthusiasm.  It 
was  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  bright  or  nudacious  student  to 
pose  him  by  a  sudden  question.  In  such  a  case  the  Doctor 
would  indulge  in  one  or  two  of  his  resounding  “ahems,”  draw 
his  hand  across  his  jutting  brow,  and,  perhaps,  with  a  mischiev¬ 
ous  twinkle  in  his  keen,  black  eyes,  put  aside  the  questioner  by 
a  halting  or  half  jocose  reply.  The  next  day,  very  likely,  in 
a  sort  of  careless  or  casual  way  he  would  break  the  flow  of  the 
recitation  with  some  such  remark  as  this :  “  Ah,  young  gentlemen, 
as  to  that  matter  about  which  Smith  asked  a  question  yester¬ 
day  ;  ”  and  he  would  then  go  on  to  lay  out  the  subject  in  a  lucid 
exposition  which  showed  that  he  had  made  it  the  subject  of 
special  thought.  If,  as  I  have  just  said.  Dr.  Wayland  was  not 
exactly  magnetic  or  inspiring,  he  had  a  strong  molding  hand 
and  an  informing  spirit.  He  was  calm,  sincere,  wise,  and  as 
“  judicious  ”  as  Hooker  himself.  If  not  profoundly  learned  or 
very  widely  read,  he  knew  enough,  and  had  ability  and  tact 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


enough  to  be,  in  my  opinion,  the  best  college  president  of  his 
generation.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  his  “Moral  Science,” 
though  confessedly  not  up  to  the  demands  of  the  present  time, 
is  even  yet  a  much  better  text-book  than  some  of  the  ponderous 
volumes  that  have  been  allowed  to  supersede  it. 

I  was  graduated  with  the  “  classical  oration  ”  in  the  class  of 
1840,  a  class  which  has  given  to  the  world  several  college  and 
seminary  presidents  and  professors,  at  least  one  governor  (Gas¬ 
ton,  of  Massachusetts),  quite  a  number  of  eminent  lawyers,  of 
whom  the  best  known  perhaps  was  the  late  Abraham  Payne,  of 
Providence,  E.  I.,  and  not  a  few  preachers  of  goodly  repute. 

I  should  much  like  at  this  moment  to  have  before  me  the 
curriculum  of  Brown  in  1840,  that  I  might  compare  it  with  her 
course  of  study  in  the  present  year.  The  comparison  would 
doubtless  reveal  a  great  advance.  In  my  day  we  had  no  instruc¬ 
tion  in  history  or  modern  languages.  It  would  not  surprise  me 
to  find  in  some  colleges  the  standard  so  raised  that  students  now 
begin  their  academic  course  about  where  they  left  it  fifty  years 
ago.  This  ought  to  insure  for  the  present  generation  of  boys  a 
vastly  higher  education  than  that  enjoyed  by  their  fathers. 

As  I  review  my  college  life  one  thing  still  irritates  me,  and 
another  gives  me  pain.  The  irritating  thing  was  my  failure  to  get 
any  considerable  good  out  of  my  Latin  and  Greek  studies  at  Brown, 
and  that  through  no  serious  fault  of  my  own.  Dr.  Hackett,  one 
of  the  best  of  American  scholars,  had  just  left  the  college  when  I 
entered,  and  the  classical  department  was  in  the  hands  of  an  ex¬ 
tremely  amiable  but  utterly  incompetent  professor.  Eecitations 
under  him  were  little  better  than  a  mockery.  So  maidenly  modest 
and  timid  was  he  that  he  did  not  dare  to  correct  a  student  when 
making  a  flagrant  mistranslation.  He  was  afraid  to  rebuke  the 
disorderly,  and  when  some  unruly  fellows  were  playing  pranks 
under  his  very  eye,  he  would  actually  cover  his  face  with  his 
book  that  he  might  not  seem  to  see  them.  The  result  of  all  this 
was  that  I  came  away  from  Brown  University  bringing  little,  if 
any  more  Latin  and  Greek  than  I  carried  there.  I  need  scarcely 
add  that  Brown’s  deficiency  at  this  point  was  soon  supplied,  and 
that  under  Lincoln  and  Harkness  the  old  university  has  been 
distinguished  for  strength  where  for  a  little  while  it  was  almost 
scandalously  weak. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


What  pains  me  in  the  review  of  my  college  life  is  the  fact 
that  I  graduated  so  young,  when  only  nineteen.  I  was  not  suffi¬ 
ciently  matured  to  get  the  best  results  out  of  an  academic  course. 
I  am  aware  that  there  are  two  sides  to  this  subject.  Colonel 
Higginson  has  told  us  that  he  was  but  seventeen  when  he  gradu¬ 
ated,  and  I  do  not  remember  that  he  expressed  any  regrets  over 
it  Dr.  A.  P.  Peabody,  of  Harvard,  informed  me  some  years 
since  that  he  graduated  at  fifteen,  and  was  glad  of  it.  In  pro¬ 
nouncing  a  decision  upon  this  matter,  much  would  depend,  of 
course,  upon  the  student’s  opportunities  subsequent  to  leaving 
college.  Unusual  precocity  and  exceptional  advantages  aside, 
it  strikes  me  that  twenty-one  is  quite  early  enough  for  complet¬ 
ing  an  academic  course. 

In  connection  with  the  misfortune  just  mentioned  I  made  the 
blunder  of  my  life,  looking  at  life  from  a  mere  educational  point 
of  view — a  blunder  that  puts  me  in  lively  sympathy  with  Chan¬ 
cellor  Vincent  in  the  regrets  which  he  so  pathetically  expressed 
in  his  contribution  to  this  series.  Late  in  my  college  course  I 
had  concluded  that  my  duty  pointed  to  the  Christian  ministry, 
and  to  qualify  myself  for  this  vocation  I  returned  to  Hamilton 
and  entered  the  seminary  for  a  course  of  special  study.  Cir¬ 
cumstances,  which  need  not  be  recounted,  led  me  to  defer  for  a 
season  the  prosecution  of  this  course.  With  the  design  of  teach¬ 
ing  for  a  year  or  two  and  then  returning  to  my  seminary  work, 
I  departed  late  in  the  autumn  of  1840  for  Georgia,  where  I  had 
three  brothers.  But  I  did  not  return.  My  intended  absence  of 
a  year  or  two  grew  into  an  absence  of  twenty-six  years.  Almost 
immediately  upon  beginning  to  teach  I  allowed  myself  to  begin 
to  preach  in  an  occasional  way,  and  after  two  years  of  school¬ 
mastering  I  became  a  pastor.  This,  I  have  just  said,  educationally 
viewed,  was  the  mistake  of  my  life.  Eegarded  from  the  point  of 
view  of  practical  usefulness,  my  conduct  may  admit  of  a  fair  de¬ 
fense.  On  a  broad  survey  of  my  life  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  my 
keen  regrets  at  the  loss  of  a  seminary  training  are  altogether  un¬ 
selfish  and  noble.  The  Gospel  ministry  is  a  service  that  has  a 
place  for  various  styles  and  degrees  of  training,  as  well  as  for  a 
variety  of  gifts.  I  am  far  from  thinking  it  wise  or  even  right  to 
prescribe  a  hard-and-fast  theological  course  of  study  and  disci- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


pline  as  tlie  condition  of  entrance  into  tlie  Cliristian'*ministrj. 
It  is  quite  notorious  that  not  a  few  of  the  ablest,  as  well  as  of 
the  most  successful  preachers,  in  all  times,  have  been  men  who 
derived  very  little  help  from  schools  of  any  sort.  Especially 
with  a  college  training  one  is  in  a  way  to  give  himself,  in  large 
degree,  the  results  of  a  specific  seminary  course  of  study.  If  he 
has  pluck  and  perseverance  he  can  go  on  to  acquire  for  himself 
the  best  results  of  a  technical  higher  education.  If  he  has  pluck 
and  perseverance — ah,  there’s  the  rub  !  At  all  events,  justly  or 
unjustly,  wisely  or  unwisely,  it  has  been  the  grief  of  my  life  that 
I  missed  the  broadening  and  enriching  processes  incident  to  a 
full  and  orderly  course  in  a  theological  seminary. 

My  two  years  of  Georgia  schoolmastering  were,  of  course, 
very  useful  in  a  way.  The  review  thus  involved  of  the  most 
elementary  branches  as  well  as  of  the  higher,  ranging  from  ABC 
to  Yirgil  and  Algebra,  together  with  the  management  of  pupils 
of  both  sexes,  of  whom  some  were  a  head  taller  and  many  years 
older  than  myself,  was  an  educating  experience  of  a  very  prac¬ 
tical  sort.  The  teaching  service  into  which  the  average  student 
falls  on  leaving  college  constitutes  for  him  a  kind  of  post-gradu¬ 
ate  course  of  no  mean  value. 

At  twenty-one  I  became  pastor  of  the  Baptist  church  in 
Macon,  Georgia,  and  here  my  education  began  in  quite  another 
fashion.  How  it  was  education  in  life  as  well  as  for  life,  the 
latter  being  quite  as  important  as  the  former,  as  every  teacher, 
lawyer,  physician,  and  preacher  will  testify. 

At  this  point,  perhaps,  according  to  the  strict  rules  and  aims 
of  this  series,  my  meager  story  ought  to  end.  But,  considering 
how  little  I  have  had  to  tell,  and  the  really  boyish  age  at  which 
my  narrative  would  have  to  leave  off,  the  editor  will  perhaps 
allow  me  to  drop  into  a  few  autobiographic  details  relating  to 
my  early  education  in  the  ministerial  life. 

My  first  charge  was  a  small  distracted  church,  from  which, 
but  for  the  happy  audacity  of  youth,  I  should  have  shrunk  in 
terror.  Somehow  I  scrambled  along  in  my  work  and  grew,  I 
suppose,  in  knowledge,  efficiency,  and  reputation.  At  all  events 
the  church  prospered  and  soon  became  what  it  has  ever  since 
remained,  one  of  the  best  Baptist  churches  in  the  South. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


I  have  ventured  to  speak  of  growing  in.  reputation  with  the 
more  confidence,  because,  in  the  fourth  year  of  my  Macon  min¬ 
istry,  I  was  called  to  the  pastorate  of  the  First  Baptist  Church 
in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  a  strong  body,  with  a  long  and 
honorable  history.  Here,  in  a  wider  sphere  and  breathing  the 
atmosphere  of  a  cultivated  society,  my  best  powers  were  called 
into  exercise,  and  my  education,  as  I  think,  rapidly  advanced. 
The  Charleston  of  that  day  was  perhaps  as  refined  a  community 
as  this  continent  could  show.  It  had  large  libraries,  distinguished 
scholars,  an  active  intellectual  life,  much  genuine  culture,  a  high 
pervading  tone  of  business  integrity  and  personal  honor.  Simple 
candor  obliges  me  to  acknowledge  that,  making  allowance  for  the 
fatal  limitations  of  slavery  and  the  intolerant  political  spirit 
which  it  bred,  I  have  never  lived  in  a  society  where  there  was 
such  a  prevailing  character  of  grace  and  culture  as  distinguished 
the  Charleston  of  thirty-five  years  ago. 

Here  some  fifteen  years  of  my  youth  and  early  manhood  were 
spent.  Here  I  might  have  ended  my  education  in  this  terres¬ 
trial  university  but  for  that  strange,  awful,  beneficent  cataclysm 
which  almost  rent  our  country  in  twain  and  ingulfed  slavery  in 
a  sea  of  blood.  It  was  my  hard  fate  to  hear  the  crash  of  the  first 
bomb  that  burst  over  Sumter,  and  to  watch  from  my  attic  window 
the  red  glare  of  the  rockets.  All  through  that  ever  memorable 
April  day  I  gazed,  with  the  vast  multitude  that  thronged  the 
city’s  sea-front,  upon  the  contest  between  the  doomed  fortress  and 
the  environing  batteries.  I  saw  the  black  clouds  of  smoke  rolling 
upward  when  the  fort  took  fire,  and  the  white  flag  fluttering  at 
last  on  its  rampart  in  token  of  surrender.  Going  away  for  a  while 
about  mid-day  I  said  to  a  northern-born  brother  clergyman  whom 
I  chanced  to  meet,  “There’s  work  going  on  down  there  which 
you  and  I  shall  not  live  to  see  the  end  of.”  “  Pshaw !  ”  he  ex¬ 
claimed  in  scornful  incredulity  ;  “  we  shall  not  live  long  then.” 
He  was  a  Southern  zealot,  and  had  no  doubt  about  the  South’s 
speedy  triumph.  I  felt  nearly  sure,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the 
shot  which  opened  the  war  would  liberate  the  slave  and  echo 

down  the  ages.  The  war  was  a  great  factor  in  my  education. 

0 

J.  E.  Kendkick. 


'HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


The  question  is  asked  me.  How  I  was  educated.  It  is  an 
interesting  question  to  myself,  for  it  carries  me  back  in  memory 
to  the  early  days,  and  takes  my  thoughts  into  a  region  where  I 
see  the  beginnings  of  all  that  has  made  my  intellectual  life  a  joy¬ 
ful  one — a  life  continually  growing  in  its  joyfulness  with  every 
passing  year.  But  how  it  can  be  a  question  of  any  peculiar 
interest  to  others  I  do  not  know,  and  whether  I  can  answer  it  in 
a  satisfactory  way,  or  can  give  a  story  worth  the  reading,  I  have 
grave  doubts.  Indeed,  I  can  hardly  suppose  that  one  person 
can  ever  fully  unfold  to  another  that  which  has  made  him  what 
he  is,  even  if  he  can,  by  any  means,  understand  all  the  co-operat¬ 
ing  influences  of  which  his  present  mental  life  is  the  result.  But 
as  the  inquiry  is  presented  to  me  with  a  request  for  a  reply  to 
it,  I  will  say  what  I  may  find  it  in  my  power  to  say  within  the 
limits  of  these  few  pages.  If  my  brief  story  bears  with  it  a 
single  helpful  suggestion  for  any  reader,  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

The  Eev.  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  on  being  questioned  by 
some  correspondent  as  to  the  rules  of  health  and  long  life  sug¬ 
gested  by  his  own  experience,  said,  in  his  answer:  “The  first 
rule  is  to  select  the  right  father  and  mother.”  I  have  often 
thought  that  the  same  rule  might  be  given  with  respect  to  intel¬ 
lectual  life.  Whether  it  be  so  in  general  or  not,  I  will  open  my 
story  of  myself  by  saying  that  I  followed  this  rule,  and  began  my 
education  by  securing  the  right  father  and  mother.  My  father 
was  of  a  family  which  had  for  generations  been  thoroughly  edu¬ 
cated,  and  the  traditions  of  which  had  all  favored  the  cultiva¬ 
tion  and  strengthening  of  the  intellectual  life.  He  was  himself, 
though  occupied  with  mercantile  pursuits,  an  omnivorous  reader. 
He  could  be  happy  anywhere,  if  only  surrounded  by  books,  and 
he  was  equally  interested,  I  might  almost  say,  in  all  classes  of 
books  which  had  any  reasonable  claim  to  be  read.  My  mother 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


was  a  woman  of  unusual  intellectual  power,  of  extraordinary  men¬ 
tal  acumen,  of  great  energy,  and  of  the  most  far-reaching  desires 
for  her  children  in  the  matter  of  their  education.  So  strong  was 
her  determination  that  her  children  should  be  educated  that, 
as  I  have  often  thought,  if  there  had  been  only  one  school  or 
college  in  the  country,  and  that  one  in  Oregon,  she  would  have 
taken  her  family  there,  regardless  of  all  difficulties  and  hard¬ 
ship,  and  would  at  any  cost  have  secured  for  them  the  blessing 
which  she  so  highly  prized.  She  was  also  an  educating  power 
in  herself.  She  received  her  children,  from  a  very  early  period 
in  their  life,  into  a  participation  in  her  own  thought  and  intel¬ 
lectual  activity,  and  became  to  them,  in  this  way,  a  continually 
stimulating  force.  She  had  what  is  called  magnetic  power,  one 
of  the  most  uncommon  gifts,  but  a  gift  of  the  greatest  impor¬ 
tance  when  the  education  of  others  is  the  end  to  be  attained. 
To  live  under  her  influence  was  an  education  in  itself,  and  I  may 
truly  say  that  I  owed  more  to  her,  in  the  matter  of  the  awaken¬ 
ing  of  my  mental  enthusiasm,  than  to  any  or  all  of  the  teachers 
of  my  childhood  and  youth.  Mr.  Beecher  was  right — a  man’s 
inheritance  is  everything;  and  if  he  has  the  right  father  and 
mother  he  is,  ordinarily,  well  on  the  way,  even  at  the  beginning, 
toward  the  right  sort  of  a  life. 

My  mother  was  not  much  of  a  believer  in  schools  for  young 
children.  She  favored  home  teaching.  My  father  was  much  of 
the  time  absent  from  home,  and  he  had  the  wisdom,  which  all 
fathers  who  are  wise  enough  to  marry  intelligent  wives  ought 
to  have,  to  allow  his  wife  to  follow  her  own  judgment  in  such 
matters.  My  school  days,  therefore,  did  not  begin  until  I  was 
eleven  years  old.  Of  the  time  earlier  than  that  I  will  only  say 
a  few  words.  I  learned  to  read  when  I  was  six,  and  it  may  be 
worth  stating  that,  while  I  was  learning  to  read,  I  used  to  stand 
in  front  of  my  older  brother  or  sister,  facing  them  as  they  were 
holding  the  book,  and  thus  the  book  was,  as  the  phrase  is,  “bot¬ 
tom  upward  ”  to  myself.  I  thus  acquired  a  power  which  I  have 
never  lost,  and  which  it  is  occasionally  useful  to  possess,  of  read¬ 
ing  with  the  letters  reversed  as  readily  as  when  they  are  stand¬ 
ing  upright.  My  learning  to  read,  however,  was  not  phenome¬ 
nally  early,  as  is  the  case  with  some  children,  and  as  was  the  fact 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


with  one  or  two  of  my  own  family.  I  may  add  that  I  was  not 
a  lover  of  reading,  in  my  childhood.  Being  the  youngest  of  the 
household,  and  my  brothers  haying  been  great  readers,  and  one 
of  them  having  been  supposed  to  have  injured  his  eyes  by  excess 
of  reading,  my  mother  did  not  encourage  me  to  press  on  in  this 
line ;  and  though  my  father  tried  to  make  me  follow  the  ancestral 
course,  he  could  not  awaken  my  enthusiasm  as  much  as  he  de¬ 
sired.  I  think  he  doubted,  during  all  those  early  years,  whether 
I  should  ever  prove  my  birthright  in  a  reading  household.  But, 
as  I  have  intimated  above,  I  was  the  youngest  of  his  children, 
and  I  suppose  that  all  fathers  and  mothers  have  for  their  young¬ 
est  child  a  large  measure  of  the  love  that  “  believeth  all  things 
and  hopeth  all  things ;  ”  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  my  father 
kept  his  faith  in  me  through  all  those  discouraging  years,  and 
when  I  grew  up  I  verily  believe  he  thought  me  worthy  to  be  his 
youngest  child.  It  was  all  because  I  had  the  right  father  and 
mother. 

I  have  said  that  I  did  not  go  to  school  until  I  was  eleven 
years  old.  As  for  continuous  and  regular  attendance,  and  that 
schooling  which  started  me  on  what  we  commonly  speak  of  as  a 
boy’s  education,  I  might,  perhaps,  more  properly  say,  that  it 
began  when  I  was  twelve.  I  had  learned  a  little  Latin  before 
this  time  from  a  young  man  who  was  a  teacher  in  the  Hopkins 
Grammar  School,  in  Hew  Haven ;  and,  even  before  I  knew  any¬ 
thing  about  translating  Latin,  I  had  been  taught  by  my  oldest 
brother  to  read  Latin  poetry,  so  far  that  I  could  scan  Yirgil’s 
hexameters  more  easily  and  rapidly  than  most  students  in  college 
are  able  to  do  it.  I  had  made  a  small  beginning  also  in  French 
with  my  brother,  which  was  never  lost  to  me  afterward.  He 
was  a  senior  in  college  at  the  time,  and  was  in  a  remarkable 
degree  enthusiastic  and  enterprising  in  all  lines  of  study  which 
opened  to  him.  Had  his  life  been  spared,  I  can  scarcely  doubt 
that  he  would  have  been  prominent  as  a  scholar  in  the  profes¬ 
sion  of  his  choice.  But  my  real  school  life  had  its  beginning 
in  the  city  of  Horwich,  Connecticut,  which  was  my  birthplace, 
and  where  a  considerable  part  of  my  boyhood  was  passed. 
There  was  an  academy  there  at  the  time,  which  afterward  went 
out  of  being  ;  or  perhaps  it  may  more  properly  be  said,  it  gave 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


place  to  the  larger  and  now  well-known  Free  Academy  of 
that  city.  This  school  was  conducted  by  Mr.  Calvin  Tracy,  who 
is,  I  think,  no  longer  living.  He  had  the  good  fortune,  as  I 
also  had,  to  be  surrounded  by  a  bright  company  of  boys,  gath¬ 
ered  from  the  best  families  in  the  place.  I  gained  some  knowl¬ 
edge  of  arithmetic  from  him,  especially  of  a  system  of  solving 
problems  by  means  of  cancellation,  of  which  he  was,  I  believe, 
the  author,  but  which  long  since  passed  out  of  my  possession 
into  dim  forgetfulness.  He  and  his  one  assistant  also  taught 
me  a  little  Latin  and  Greek,  so  that,  although  I  struggled  hope¬ 
lessly  with  Cassar’s  “Commentaries”  when  I  began,  I  could  at  the 
end  read  Yirgil  and  Cicero,  and  was  among  the  best  of  the  scholars 
in  the  various  branches  of  study  to  which  I  was  directed.  The 
boys,  I  think,  complained,  in  after  years — as  boys  very  often  do — 
that  he  did  not  have  the  best  system  of  instruction ;  but  some¬ 
how  or  other,  either  by  reason  of  what  he  did,  or  because  of  nat¬ 
ure’s  gifts  and  the  subsequent  advantages  which  they  enjoyed,  a 
goodly  number  of  those  boys  have  had  an  honorable  place  in  the 
world.  As  for  myself,  I  never  pass  the  old  building  in  which 
this  worthy  gentleman  used  to  teach,  without  a  tender  and 
kindly  remembrance  of  the  days  when  I  was  a  schoolboy  under 
his  instruction.  But  the  memories  of  the  past  gather  so  many 
things  into  themselves,  that  I  will  not  pretend  to  say  how 
much  that  still  lingers  with  me  belongs  to  the  place,  and  how 
much  to  the  teacher  and  my  fellow-pupils.  The  man  whose 
happy  lot  it  is  to  have  been  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,  and 
whose  early  years  were  familiar  with  its  beautiful  hills,  has  a 
recollection  of  the  past,  as  he  passes  on  in  his  manhood  life, 
which  is  full  of  peace  and  pleasantness.  And  so  long  as  the 
recollection  abides  with  him,  he  will  be  thankful  for  it,  and  will 
be  glad  to  think  of  everything  which  makes  a  part  of  its  joy¬ 
fulness. 

When  I  was  a  little  less  than  fifteen  my  mother  returned  to 
New  Haven,  for  the  collegiate  education  of  my  brother  next 
older  than  myself,  and  I  had  the  great  good-fortune  to  enter  the 
Hopkins  Grammar  School,  while  it  was  under  the  charge  of  the 
late  Hawley  Olmstead.  He  had  been  a  teacher  then  for  thirty 
years,  and  was  a  man  most  thoroughly  fitted  for  his  work.  He 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


was  an  enthusiast  in  his  profession,  tliorough,  exact,  stimulating^ 
abounding  in  wisdom  and  common  sense,  fully  acquainted  with 
boys,  and  capable  of  winning  their  respect  and  even  reverence. 
The  “  Old  Dominie,”  as  we  used  to  call  him,  never  sent  a  pupil 
from  his  school  at  the  end  of  the  course  without  having  prepared 
him,  so  far  as  his  native  powers  and  disposition  would  allow,  for 
the  work  and  life  opening  before  him  in  the  future.  Free  from 
all  the  petty  rules  and  regulations  which  make  the  conduct  of 
many  of  our  schools  a  burden  that  is  almost  beyond  endurance, 
his  school  was  a  model  for  its  reasonable  government,  its  ex¬ 
cellent  instruction,  its  manly  inspiration,  its  silent,  but  effective, 
Christian  influence.  “  Poor  scholars  ”  sometimes  went  forth 
from  it — and  where  is  the  school  or  college  from  which  such 
scholars  have  not  gone  out? — but  they  did  not  owe  their  poor 
scholarship  to  his  methods  and  influence,  or  to  his  neglect.  As 
for  myself,  at  my  first  entrance  into  the  company  of  his  pupils  I 
found  myself  in  a  new  atmosphere.  I  seemed  to  myself  to  have 
known  nothing  as  yet  as  I  ought  to  know  it,  and  I  gained  a  new 
impulse  as  I  saw  before  me  a  true  teacher,  with  a  love  of  learn¬ 
ing  for  its  own  sake,  and  a  wisdom  and  enthusiasm  which  made 
study  attractive.  He,  like  good  Mr.  Tracy,  of  whom  I  have 
spoken,  had  an  excellent  company  of  boys  about  him.  My  boy¬ 
ish  friendships  began  in  these  two  schools,  and,  as  I  had  the  home 
influences  which  made  me  choose  the  right  kind  of  friends,  I 
derived  great  benefit  from  them.  Some  of  these  friendships  were 
afterward  strengthened  in  my  college  life,  and  thus  were  made 
permanent  for  the  years  that  followed.  But,  for  the  awakening 
of  my  mind,  and  that  drawing  out  of  my  powers  which  is  the 
true  education  of  the  man,  the  instruction  which  I  received  from 
Hawley  Olmstead  did  the  work  of  my  school  life.  Dr.  Leonard 
Bacon  used  to  say  of  him,  with  a  jocose  allusion  to  his  enthusi¬ 
asm  as  a  teacher:  “Mr.  Olmstead  seemed  to  think  that  a  man 
ought  to  spend  one  half  of  his  life  in  getting  ready  for  college, 
and  the  other  half  in  going  through  college.”  This  remark  will 
give  an  impression  of  his  interest  in  his  work  as  an  instructor 
of  boys,  and  his  devotion  to  it.  He  was  near  the  ending  of  his 
active  service  as  a  teacher  when  I  was  his  pupil,  but  I  shall  always 
remember  my  period  of  study  with  him  as  one  of  the  blessings 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


wliicli  a  kind  Providence  gave  me  in  mj  earlier  life.  During  my 
school  years  with  him,  however,  as  before  that  period,  I  was  at 
home.  My  mother  and  her  children  lived  in  New  Haven,  it 
being  a  part  of  her  plan  for  their  education  to  go  with  them 
where  they  went.  In  the  judgment  of  many  parents,  and  of 
many  other  persons  also,  it  is  for  the  highest  interest  of  boys 
that  they  should  go  away  from  home  to  boarding-schools,  when 
they  reach  the  age  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years.  I  do  not  propose 
to  discuss  this  question  here.  But,  speaking  only  of  myself  and 
my  own  education,  I  regard  it  as  an  inestimable  privilege  of  my 
childhood  and  youth  that  I  was  never  separated  from  the  intellec¬ 
tual  life  of  my  own  household ;  that  whatever  my  teachers  did 
or  tried  to  do  for  me,  I  went  to  them  daily  from  the  stimulating 
influence  of  the  conversation  of  the  family,  and  returned  from 
them  to  find  in  my  home  more  of  mental  awakening  than  could 
be  gained  even  from  their  best  efforts. 

I  entered  Yale  College  just  three  months  before  my  seven¬ 
teenth  birthday.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  earnest  counsels  of  the 
“good  old  Dominie,”  I  should  have  entered  a  year  earlier;  but 
he  thought  at  that  time  that  I  was  not  quite  ready  in  my  studies 
to  secure,  beyond  question,  the  rank  in  the  class  which  he  desired 
for  me  as  his  pupil,  and  accordingly,  much  to  my  disappointment, 
he  persuaded  my  parents  to  keep  me  at  school  for  another  twelve 
months.  I  have  blessed  his  memory  ever  since,  as  I  may  say, 
for  the  wisdom  which  he  manifested,  and  for  the  great  service 
which  he  rendered  me  in  this  matter.  As  it  was,  however,  I  was 
younger  than  three-quarters  of  my  classmates,  and  was  graduated 
at  the  end  of  the  course,  in  August,  1849,  just  three  months  to  a 
day  before  I  became  twenty-one.  How  well  I  remember  the  old 
college  chapel,  and  the  seat  in  the  gallery  where  I  sat  when  I  was 
examined  for  admission.  The  solemnities  and  formalities  of  the 
examinations,  which  have  grown  up  within  the  past  few  years  in 
all  our  colleges,  were  then  unknown.  But  an  entering  freshman, 
even  then,  felt  that  the  professors  and  tutors  were  pretty  formi¬ 
dable  specimens  of  the  human  race ;  and  when  the  result  of  the 
process  of  questioning  and  answering  was  declared  to  be  favor¬ 
able,  a  sense  of  'satisfaction  and  relief  was  experienced,  to  which 
life  offers  scarcely  anything  parallel.  I  have  the  impression — 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


though  I  suppose  it  will  not  do  to  express  it  publicly — ^that  the 
old  way  was  about  as  sensible  as  the  new  one ;  and  that  when 
dear  old  Professor  Kingsley  announced  to  me,  with  humor  spark¬ 
ling  in  his  keen  eye,  that  I  might  consider  myself  a  member  of 
Yale  College,  he  knew  what  there  was  in  me  quite  as  well  as  if 
he  had  read  a  series  of  examination  papers,  and  had  sent  me  home 
for  a  week  to  wait  for  information.  This,  however,  is  only  a  side 
remark,  for  nobody  to  hear.  The  only  interesting  point  to  the 
public  or  the  educators  is,  that  the  professor  told  me  what  he  did. 
I  was  a  freshman,  and,  if  all  went  well,  I  might  hope  to  be  a  gradu¬ 
ate  after  four  years.  As  I  had  had  the  right  father  and  mother, 
and  had  had  a  wonderfully  good  teacher,  all  went  well.  I  suppose 
I  had  something  to  do  with  the  matter  myself.  Persons  who  are 
educated  generally  have  some  participation  in  the  work  of  their 
own  development.  The  reader  may  judge  for  himself  on  this 
point.  The  story  which  I  have  to  tell  is  rather  of  what  was  done 
with  me,  and  for  me.  A  word,  therefore,  of  the  college  teachers, 
and  the  college  system,  in  my  undergraduate  days.  The  best 
teachers  whom  I  met,  in  the  first  three  years  of  the  course,  were 
Professor  Thomas  A.  Thacher  and  Professor  James  Hadley. 
The  former  was,  at  the  time  of  my  entering  college,  just  beginning 
his  work  as  Assistant  Professor  of  Latin.  He  had  been  study¬ 
ing  in  Europe,  and  was  full  of  the  ardor  and  energy  of  a  young 
man  whose  mind  was  awakened  by  all  that  he  had  seen  and 
learned  in  the  foreign  universities.  The  tutors  seemed  old  to 
my  freshman  eyes,  and  he  seemed  older  than  they ;  but  he  was 
only  thirty.  He  had  the  gifts  which  make  a  teacher.  The  clear¬ 
ness  and  precision  of  his  explanations,  the  energy  and  force  of 
his  will,  and  a  certain  peculiar  faculty,  which  I  cannot  describe, 
of  impressing  what  he  said  so  that  it  could  not  pass  from  the 
mind  of  the  pupil,  distinguished  him  above  all  my  other  instruct¬ 
ors.  What  he  was  to  Yale  College  afterward  is  well  known  to 
many  hundreds  of  students.  Mr.  Hadley  was  a  tutor  during  most 
of  my  college  life.  He  met  my  class  in  our  junior  year,  and  at¬ 
tracted  our  attention  and  won  our  esteem,  from  the  very  first  day 
of  our  association  with  him.  By  some  accident,  or  through  some 
peculiar  drawing  of  my  mind  and  heart  toward  him,  I  became 
acquainted  with  him  in  a  friendly  way,  as  I  had  not  been  in  equal 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


degree  witli  other  tutors  whom  I  had  met.  As  an  instructor  and 
as  an  acquaintance,  therefore,  he  had  a  marked  influence  upon  me. 
He  was  a  brilliant  scholar.  His  mind  was  open  in  every  direc¬ 
tion.  His  knowledge  was  exceedingly  accurate  and  wide-reaching. 
As  a  conversationalist  he  was  very  remarkable.  His  humor  was 
inexhaustible.  Ho  one  could  know  him  without  being  stimulated 
by  his  example  as  a  scholar,  and  incited  to  fresh  thought  and  new 
impulse  by  his  familiar  talk  and  conversation.  These  two  gen¬ 
tlemen  received  me,  even  in  my  student  days,  into  somewhat  of 
kindly  friendship,  and  they  accomplished  much  for  me,  as  well 
as  for  my  classmates,  in  the  development  of  mental  life.  In  my 
senior  year  I  came  into  more  immediate  connection  with  Presi¬ 
dent  W oolsey.  The  influence  of  his  life  and  character,  of  his  schol¬ 
arship  and  intellectual  greatness,  are  too  well  known  to  every 
graduate  of  Yale  College  during  the  period  of  his  administration, 
to  make  necessary  in  this  place  a  more  special  reference  to  what  I 
personally  gained  from  him.  I  had  the  uncommon  good-fortune, 
however,  to  study  with  him,  as  a  member  of  a  select  class  of  grad¬ 
uates,  for  two  years  after  leaving  college,  and  I  date  some  of  the 
best  impulses  of  all  my  student  life  from  those  meetings  which 
our  small  company  of  young  men  used  to  have  in  his  private 
room.  To  be  a  pupil  in  the  college  years  of  three  such  men  as 
those  whom  I  have  mentioned,  and  to  have  a  mind  prepared  by 
previous  discipline,  and  awakened  to  enthusiasm  to  receive  what 
they  had  to  offer,  this  was  my  privilege,  and  this  was,  in  part, 
the  way  in  which  I  was  educated. 

The  most  magnetic  teacher  whom  I  have  known  in  America, 
and  one  more  magnetic  than  any  teacher  whom  I  met  in  my  stu¬ 
dent  days  in  Europe,  with  a  single  exception,  was  the  late  Dr.  Ha- 
thaniel  W.  Taylor.  I  came  under  his  instruction  in  the  Divinity 
School  at  Hew  Haven.  He  was  a  man  built  on  a  grand  scale. 
To  me  he  was  inspiring  in  a  degree  beyond  my  power  to  describe. 
I  never  heard  him  lecture  without  having  my  mind  interested  and 
stirred.  When  I  heard  him  for  the  first  time,  after  an  interval 
during  which  I  had  been  occupied  with  other  things,  I  felt  that 
I  must  at  the  earliest  possible  moment  take  up  the  subject,  what¬ 
ever  it  might  be,  on  which  he  was  speaking,  and  make  it  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  special  investigation.  I  felt,  indeed,  that  I  could  scarcely 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


wait  a  day  before  making  myself  acquainted  witb  it.  Of  all 
powers  in  a  teacher,  this  is,  in  my  judgment,  the  greatest  and 
most  desirable.  If  the  teacher  can  stimulate  the  mind  of  his 
pupil,  and  give  him  a  powerful  impulse  and  enthusiasm,  he  ac¬ 
complishes  his  best  work,  iind  this  Dr.  Taylor  did  for  me. 
But  I  was,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  beyond  the  limits  of  my 
undergraduate  career  before  I  entered  his  lecture-room. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  magnetic  power  in  teaching.  The  ab¬ 
sence  of  this  power  in  many  or  most  teachers  is  greatly  to  be 
lamented.  But,  like  the  poetic  gift,  it  is  a  natural  endowment 
of  some  men  only,  not  of  all.  And  I  do  not  suppose  that 
most  of  my  instructors  in  the  early  days  could  have  been  mag¬ 
netic,  if  they  had  tried  to  be  so.  Yet  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  college  system  of  that  time  was  somewhat  at  fault 
in  this  regard.  The  methods  of  teaching  were  not  what  they 
might  have  been.  When  I  was  in  college  there  was  too  much 
memorizing,  especially  in  a  verbal  way ;  too  much  of  mere 
recitation;  too  little  opportunity  for  questions  on  the  student’s 
part ;  too  little  call  for  individual  and  private  investigation  by 
the  student.  It  has  become  fashionable,  however,  in  these  last 
few  years,  to  criticise  the  old  methods,  and  I  would  not  add  my 
word  to  the  many  which  others  have  spoken  or  written.  The 
movement  since  my  college  4ife  has  not  been  without  any  mis¬ 
takes,  and  the  perfect  methods  are,  no  doubt,  yet  in  the  future. 
But  I  cannot  help  feeling,  in  view  of  my  own  college  course,  and 
of  all  that  I  have  seen  since  then,  that  the  great  defect  of  the 
past  and  the  present  education  lies  in  the  want  of  personal 
and  individual  intercourse  between  the  teacher  and  his  pupil — 
immediate  contact  of  the  mind  of  the  former  with  the  mind  of 
the  latter — in  such  a  degree  as  is  to  be  desired  for  the  pupil’s 
highest  inspiration.  Our  system  of  education,  which  has  been 
growing  in  popularity  of  late  in  all  our  higher  institutions  of 
learning,  places  the  student  far  too  much  in  a  kind  of  great 
machine,  where  his  individuality  is  lost  in  the  working  of  the 
machinery.  It  is  the  mind  and  the  man  which  we  need  to 
develop,  and  to  this  end  something  more  than  text-books  and 
examinations  are  necessary. 

Of  my  studies  in  college  I  will  only  say  that  !  regarded  my- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


self  as  more  successful,  according  to  the  records  of  scholarship 
on  the  instructors’  books,  in  the  mathematical  branches  than  in 
the  classical.  But  I  never  was  conscious  of  possessing  what  is 
strictly  called  the  “mathematical  gift.”  By  reason  of  my  studies 
with  President  Woolsey  after  graduation,  and  of  one  of  the  acci¬ 
dents  which,  at  that  period,  often  determined  a  college  tutor’s 
department  of  teaching,  my  work  was  afterward  directed  to¬ 
ward  the  Greek  language.  The  enthusiasm  of  my  subsequent 
student  life  was  thus  turned  into  this  line,  and  especially  into 
the  line  of  the  Greek  of  the  New  Testament,  and  Biblical  inter¬ 
pretation.  The  studies  in  mental  philosophy,  logic,  etc.,  were 
the  most  interesting  of  all  in  my  undergraduate  course,  and,  in 
my  judgment,  they  are  the  most  valuable  of  all  studies  for  the 
building  up  of  mental  power.  The  duties  of  life,  however,  forced 
me  to  tnrn  aside  from  them  after  a  time. 

The  period  of  education  referred  to  in  the  question  which 
has  been  presented  to  me,  closes,  I  believe,  about  the  time  of  col¬ 
lege  graduation.  But,  when  speaking  of  my  own  case,  I  cannot 
properly  omit  a  brief  reference  to  a  two  years’  residence  in  Eu¬ 
rope,  from  1856  to  1858.  The  studies  of  those  two  years  formed 
a  part  of  my  preparation  for  my  work  in  life,  and  an  important 
part.  The  influence  of  my  connection  with  the  universities  of 
Bonn  and  Berlin,  and  of  my  residence  in  Germany,  came  not  so 
much  from  what  I  learned,  as  from  the  methods,  which  were  new 
to  me,  and  from  the  different  position  from  which  I  was  led  to 
look  at  the  student  life.  There  is  no  “  royal  road  to  learning  ” 
in  Europe,  any  more  than  there  is  in  America.  This  I  soon  dis¬ 
covered.  But  when  a  student  has  made  sufficient  progress  at 
home  to  enable  him  to  know  what  to  do  in  a  course  of  study  in 
Germany,  he  can  gain  there  an  impulse  which  may  be  very  help¬ 
ful  to  him.  I  had  the  good-fortune  to  go  abroad  at  that  stage  of 
my  progress,  and  I  have  had  an  ever-increasing  enthusiasm  in 
all  my  intellectual  life  as  the  result.  Yery  many  students  take 
their  course  in  Europe  too  early — immediately  after  their  gradu¬ 
ation  at  college — and  thus  lose  much  of  the  benefit  which  they 
might  receive  three  or  four  years  later.  It  is  far  better,  as  I  am 
persuaded,  to  have  the  training  not  only  of  the  college,  but  of 
the  professional  school  in  this  country,  before  one  resorts  to 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


the  German  universities.  My  own  European  life  was  placed  be¬ 
tween  the  years  of  my  tutorship  in  the  college  and  the  time,  as 
it  afterward  somewhat  unexpectedly  proved  to  be,  of  my  pro¬ 
fessorship  ;  and  the  gift  which  it  bestowed  upon  me  has  been  the 
source,  in  large  measure,  of  whatever  I  have  been  able  to  do  for 
others  since  I  began  my  more  permanent  work. 

Eev.  Dr.  Edward  Everett  Hale,  in  his  answer  to  the  question 
proposed  by  The  Forum,  says :  “  The  good  of  a  college  is  not 
in  the  things  which  it  teaches.  The  good  of  a  college  is  to  be 
had  from  ‘  the  fellows  ’  who  are  there,  and  your  associations  with 
them.”  I  cannot  agree  with  him  in  the  full  sweep  of  these  sen¬ 
tences,  and  if  this  were  the  only  good  of  a  college  I  should  be 
disposed  to  doubt  whether  colleges  ought  to  exist,  or  whether 
they  would  continue  to  exist.  But  “  the  fellows  ”  did  me  much 
good  in  the  way  of  my  education.  I  had  a  most  excellent  and 
worthy  set  of  friends,  especially  in  the  last  year  of  my  college 
life.  My  association  with  them  drew  me  out  of  myself,  and  gave 
me,  in  the  best  meaning  of  the  term,  the  sense  and  the  impulse 
of  good-fellowship.  As  bearing  upon  my  preparation  for  my 
life’s  work,  this  association  did  much  to  give  me  that  common 
sense,  and  sympathy,  and  warm-heartedness,  and  love  of  young 
men,  and  comprehension  of  their  nature  and  their  feelings,  the 
value  of  which  is  so  greats  to  a  college  teacher.  The  college 
friendships,  in  their  best  development,  came  to  me  at  the  most 
fortunate  period — in  the  later  years  of  the  course.  They  came 
at  a  time  when  they  could  operate  most  healthfully  and  happily 
upon  all  that  I  had  gained  from  my  studies  and  my  teachers, 
and  rounded  out  for  me,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  the  education 
which  belonged  to  the  university.  But  as  with  a  man’s  father 
and  mother,  so  with  his  college  friends :  it  becomes  him  to  be 
very  careful  in  selecting  the  right  ones.  I  was  happy  enough  to 
make  such  a  selection. 

My  simple  story  is  told.  If  there  is  any  suggestion  which  it 
offers,  it  is,  I  think,  that  of  the  importance  of  the  family  life  in 
giving  the  impulse  to  intellectual  growth.  Education  is  like 
religion  in  many  respects.  It  is  so  in  this.  The  children  of  a 
household  grow  most  easily  and  naturally  in  the  religious  life, 
not  when  the  parents  are  always  talking  about  it,  and  pressing  it 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


upon  them,  but  when  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  is  so  full  of 
religion  that  they  do  not  think  of  living  any  other  life.  And,  in 
the  same  way,  when  parents  make  their  children  sharers  in  a 
true  intellectual  life  possessed  by  themselves,  and  make  the 
house  full  of  the  sense  of  the  blessedness  of  knowing,  the  minds 
of  the  children  will  surely  be  awake  to  knowledge,  and  will 
be  educated  as  the  years  go  on.  My  own  mind  was  awakened 
in  this  way.  The  years  of  manhood  have  not  done  for  me  all 
that  I  could  have  wished,  or  all  that  they  may  have  done  for 
many  others ;  but  the  impulse  given  me  in  my  early  home 
made  me  rejoice  in  the  working  of  my  own  mental  powers,  and, 
whatever  I  may  accomplish,  or  fail  to  accomplish,  to  the  view  of 
others,  I  have  found  so  much  delight  in  this  working,  and  in 
observing  it,  that  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  never  intellectually  go 
to  sleep.  And  so  my  answer  to  the  question.  How  I  was  edu¬ 
cated,  ends  where  it  began :  I  had  the  right  mother. 

Timothy  Dwight. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


It  was  not  mj  good-fortune  to  be  born  into  a  literary  atmos¬ 
phere,  nor  to  spend  any  of  my  earlier  days  in  “  tumbling  about  in 
a  library.”  My  parents  were  addicted  neither  to  letters  nor  to 
science,  and  the  young  negress  who  looked  after  me  in  my  ten- 
derest  years  fulfilled  all  her  commission  in  simply  keeping  me 
out  of  harm’s  way. 

When  I  was  a  little  more  than  four  and  a  half  years  old 
my  father  died,  leaving  an  encumbered  estate,  and  my  mother 
with  four  children,  of  whom  I  was  youngest.  Of  the  schools  I 
attended  prior  to  my  eighth  year  not  even  the  faintest  remem¬ 
brance  now  remains.  Of  struggles  with  words  and  of  a  sense  of 
victory  in  learning  to  read  long  before  this,  I  have  a  vivid  recol¬ 
lection,  but  of  teachers  and  schools  all  remembrance  has  vanished. 
The  earliest  recollection  that  I  have  of  being  in  a  schoolroom 
goes  back  to  the  time  when  I  must  have  been  nearly  four  and  a 
half  years  of  age.  How  I  happened  to  be  there  I  cannot  say ; 
certainly,  not  as  a  regular  scholar ;  probably  as  a  casual  visitor 
with  older  sisters.  The  recollection  is  not  of  anything  studied 
or  learned,  but  of  a  great  fright  when  the  school  had  been  dis¬ 
missed,  and  the  scholars  had  all  left.  It  was  in  a  late  summer  or 
early  autumn  afternoon  when,  wearied  from  play,  or  lulled  by  the 
hum  of  the  schoolroom,  I  had  lain  down  on  one  of  the  long  seats 
and  fallen  fast  asleep.  Hidden  by  the  desk  from  the  eye  of  the 
teacher,  and  forgotten  by  my  sisters,  I  had  been  left  asleep  and 
locked  up  alone.  I  awoke  when  all  had  left,  and  the  alarm  and 
wailing  that  followed  have  never  wholly  faded  from  my  memory. 

At  eight  my  school-days  and  education  began  in  earnest.  It 
was  to  a  large  school  kept  by  a  Mr.  Hill,  in  Pawtucket  (then 
in  Massachusetts,  but  since  ceded  to  Ehode  Island),  that  I  was 
sent.  Here  most  of  the  scholars  of  both  sexes  were  much  older 
than  myself.  Chief  among  many  unprofitable  tasks  imposed 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


upon  me  was  the  study  of  Lindley  Murray’s  English  Grammar. 
I  was  compelled  to  learn  indefinite  quantities  of  detail  about 
“parts  of  speech,”  under  the  designation  of  “Etymology,”  and 
to  commit  to  memory  verbatim  the  twenty -two  rules  of  “Syntax,” 
and  apply  these  in  “parsing.”  Human  ingenuity  could  hardly 
have  devised  anything  more  dreary  and  destructive  of  all  child¬ 
ish  interest.  So  desperate  was  the  effort  to  master  some  of  these 
rules  that  they  have  never  ceased  to  haunt  me  with  unpleasant 
memories.  So  far  as  any  usefulness  was  concerned,  any  other 
English  words  arbitrarily  combined  would  have  served  the  same 
end.  The  weary  months  spent  on  that  grammar  were  worse  than 
wasted  ;  they  did  me  a  permanent  injury.  I  acquired  the  par¬ 
rot-like  habit  of  recitation,  and  of  reading  without  taking  in  the 
sense  of  what  I  read.  That  study  of  grammar  came  near  mak¬ 
ing  useless  the  next  few  years  of  my  school-life.  But  there  was 
one  lesson  learned  by  me  at  Mr.  Hill’s  big  school  that  has  been 
invaluable  to  me  ever  since — a  lesson  learned  not  from  books, 
but  from  a  fellow-student  and  Mr.  Hill’s  blind  savagery  of  dis¬ 
cipline.  A  youth  named  Lord,  much  older  than  I,  sat  directly 
in  front  of  me,  having,  as  all  scholars  then  had,  a  “  ruler,”  which 
he  contrived  in  some  way  to  thrust  through  the  back  of  his  seat 
for  my  special  annoyance.  I  seized  it,  and,  on  his  trying  to  give 
it  a  wrench,  for  my  greater  annoyance,  it  snapped  with  a  loud  re¬ 
port.  The  ever- watchful  master,  with  rawhide  in' hand — he  was 
never  without  it  during  school-hours — was  at  once  on  the  spot, 
demanding  an  explanation  of  the  noise.  With  childish  simplicity, 
I  told  the  story  of  it  just  as  it  was,  which  Lord  vehemently  de¬ 
nied,  and  denounced  me  as  the  offender.  Older  and  bolder  than 
I,  he  browbeat  me  into  the  weakened  statement  that  I  “  thought 
he  did  it.”  The  result  was  that  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 
my  life  I  tasted  the  qualities  of  a  rawhide.  The  lesson,  not  to  be 
frightened  out  of  what  I  knew  to  be  the  truth,  was  worth  to  me 
all  it  cost,  and  has  been  more  valuable  in  life  than  all  I  learned 
from  Lindley  Murray’s  Grammar. 

For  a  year  or  two  after  leaving  Hill’s  I  attended  two  other 
schools,  one  of  them  new,  but  short-lived,  and  ambitiously  styl¬ 
ing  itself  an  academy.  What  I  brought  away  from  them,  in  spite 
of  more  grammar,  parsing,  geography,  and  arithmetic,  so  far  as 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


I  can  now  remember,  was  of  infinitesimal  value.  When  I  was 
about  ten  years  old  my  mother  went  into  the  country,  to  reside 
on  the  old  paternal  farm.  This  filled  me  with  unbounded  de¬ 
light.  The  spring-time,  the  open  fields,  the  birds,  the  blossom¬ 
ing  orchards,  the  planting  of  gardens,  banished  all  thoughts  of 
school,  and  made  life  a  genuine  pleasure.  Three  or  four  years 
slipped  away,  my  education  being  conducted  chiefly  in  a  country 
district  school.  The  school  was,  perhaps,  equal  to  the  average 
of  the  Massachusetts  schools  of  that  day ;  but  as  I  now  recall 
it,  nothing  in  the  way  of  teaching,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
could  have  been  more  worthless.  One  winter  afternoon,  how¬ 
ever,  in  that  country  schoolhouse,  still  lingers  with  me  as  one 
of  the  pleasantest  of  memories.  Among  the  books  used  in  the 
school  was  a  reading-book,  made  up  mostly  of  extracts  from  well- 
known  English  authors.  Among  these  was  Johnson’s  “  Hermit 
of  Teneriffe.”  Something  induced  me  to  read  it.  I  was  ab¬ 
sorbed;  consciousness  of  my  surroundings  ceased.  When  the 
brief  story  was  finished,  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  seemed  to 
have  transfigured  the  room.  I  was  with  the  hermit  on  the  slope 
of  Teneriffe.  It  was  my  first  conscious  taste  of  literature.  I  had 
read  “  Eobinson  Crusoe,”  “  t'he  Pilgrim’s  Progress,”  and  other 
books  of  interest  to  boys ;  but  nothing  had  ever  interested  me 
like  this  story.  Why  it  so  affected  me  I  cannot  tell,  unless  there 
may  have  been  some  mental  mood  to  which  it  chanced  at  the  in¬ 
stant  to  be  specially  fitted. 

Little  as  these  years  of  country  life  did  for  me  in  the  way  of 
mental  training,  they  nurtured  a  naturally  weak  constitution  into 
a  strength  that  has  since  been  equal  to  many  a  year  of  mental 
strain.  The  right  influence  during  these  years  would  easily  have 
given  a  permanent  bent  of  taste  to  natural  science.  That  influ¬ 
ence  came  near  being  exerted  during  my  twelfth  year,  but  it  was 
toward  a  branch  of  science  on  which  there  was  then  practically 
nothing  to  guide  me.  A  paternal  uncle  who,  with  weakened 
health,  had  abandoned  the  practice  of  medicine,  had  devoted 
himself  with  great  zeal  to  mineralogy.  He  had  traveled  far  and 
wide  throughout  the  Southern,  Middle,  and  Hew  England  States  ; 
had  frequently  consulted  and  corresponded  with  Professors 
Cleveland  and  Silliman,  and  had  published  an  elaborate  cata- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED, 


logue  of  all  known  American  minerals  and  their  localities.  He 
had  gathered  what  at  that  day  was  regarded  as  a  rare  and  valuable 
cabinet  of  minerals.  His  blow-pipe  processes  for  testing  and  de¬ 
termining  his  various  finds  interested  me  greatly  ;  but  before  my 
interest  had  taken  definite  form,  failing  health  compelled  him 
to  seek  the  milder  atmosphere  of  St.  Augnstine,  where  he  soon 
died.  His  cabinet  having  been  purchased  by  Professor  Webster 
for  Harvard  College,  my  interest  in  mineralogy  soon  expired 
from  lack  of  nourishment. 

When  I  was  fourteen,  my  mother  decided  that  something  must 
be  done  toward  giving  me  a  better  education  than  I  was  then 
receiving,  or  was  likely  to  receive  at  home,  and  so  sent  me  to 
“Day’s  Academy,”  as  it  was  called,  a  well-known  school  of  that 
time,  at  Wrentham,  Mass.  I  then  had  no  thought  of  going  to 
college,  and  was  accordingly  put  to  such  studies  as  suited  the 
convenience  of  the  principal,  and  seemed  to  him  not  wholly  un¬ 
fit  for  a  boy  of  my  age  and  needs.  Among  these  were  geogra¬ 
phy,  natural  philosophy,  parsing  in  Milton’s  “  Paradise  Lost,” 
and  the  “  Political  Class-Book.”  Mr.  Perkins,  the  principal,  was 
overworked,  had  more  pupils  than  he  could  properly  instruct, 
and  withal  was  a  dull  and  uninspiring  teacher.  With  the  ex¬ 
ception  of  a  mere  smattering  of  mechanical  principles,  misnamed 
Natural  Philosophy,  and  perhaps  a  perceptible  shade  of  increase 
in  mental  discipline,  the  only  real  gain  made  at  this  school  was 
in  some  slight  knowledge,  derived  from  the  “  Political  Class- 
Book,”  of  the  constitution  of  our  national  government,  as  well 
as  of  the  governments  of  the  several  States  of  the  Union. 

Just  how  long  I  remained  at  Day’s  Academy  I  cannot  now 
remember,  nor  precisely  what  followed  my  leaving  it.  I  only 
remember  spending  another  summer  on  the  ancestral  farm,  with 
another  trial  of  the  country  public  school.  The  year  came  near 
proving  a  total  loss  educationally,  though  I  made  some  progress 
in  my  knowledge  of  books.  Physical  mishaps,  disabling  and 
shutting  me  up  in  the  house,  compelled  me  to  seek  recreation  in 
reading.  I  was  now  sixteen  years  old,  and  it  was  necessary  for 
me  to  decide  on  my  future  in  life.  The  question  then  was,  should 
I  go  to  college?  The  reply  of  my  mother  was  :  “If  I  thought 
you  would  come  to  anything,  or  be  anybody,  I  would  gladly  have 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


you  go ;  but  to  send  you  to  college  and  have  you  come  out  a 

gambler  and  borse-racer,  like  Dr. - [naming  a  well-known 

young  physician],  I  cannot  think  of  it.”  And  it  must  be  admit¬ 
ted  that  all  attempts  up  to  that  time  to  give  me  an  education  had 
been  comparatively  futile.  They  could  hardly  have  been  more 
ill-advised.  Over-crowded  schools,  incompetent  teachers,  and  the 
radical  mistake  of  frequently  changing  schools,  with  intervals  be¬ 
tween  the  changes  of  long  mental  idleness,  had  borne  their  natural 
fruits.  I  was  a  boy  past  sixteen,  with  no  desire  for  education, 
and  with  about  the  worst  possible  habits  of  study.  But  it  was 
decided  that  I  might,  if  I  wished,  prepare  for  college,  and  that 
for  this  purpose  I  should  go  to  a  preparatory  school  at  Kew 
Hampton,  H.  H.,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  a  well-known 
school  for  young  women,  at  which  a  sister  was  then  a  pupil. 

It  was  past  the  middle  of  March ;  the  snow  had  all  disap¬ 
peared  from  Southern  Massachusetts  ;  the  robins  had  come,  and 
the  spring  had  fairly  begun,  when,  with  a  full  supply  of  clothing 
for  a  year,  I  was  put  on  board  a  stage-coach  for  Boston,  with  the 
understanding  that  two  days  and  a  half  of  stage  traveling  would 
bring  me  to  my  destination.  With  less  knowledge  of  the  world 
than  then  belonged  to  the  average  boy  of  my  age,  that  stage 
Journey  was  itself  distinctively  educational.  The  landing  at 
Wild’s  Hotel,  Elm  Street,  Boston,  the  great  center  for  the  stage 
travelers  of  that  day  ;  the  start  at  four  in  the  morning  for  Con¬ 
cord,  N.  H. ;  the  loud  rattling  of  the  coach-wheels  over  the  cob¬ 
ble-stone  pavement  of  the  empty  streets,  in  the  cold  darkness  of 
that  dreary  March  morning ;  the  frightful  state  of  the  roads,  pro¬ 
longing  the  one  day’s  drive  to  Concord  into  two ;  the  exchange 
of  wheels  for  runners  on  the  fourth  day  from  home,  with  the 
“  sea-sickness  ”  that  followed,  all  had  their  lessons  for  me.  I 
reached  Hew  Hampton  the  most  forlorn  and  disheartened  boy 
ever  dropped  among  merry  school-fellows.  The  surrounding 
country  at  once  interested  me  more  than  the  school.  I  was  made 
the  room-mate  of  a  soulless  student,  much  older  than  myself,  with 
whom  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  have  a  particle  of  sympathy, 
and  was  set  to  work  on  Adams’s  “Latin  Grammar,”  simply  com¬ 
mitting  to  memory  its  larger  type,  and  its  declensions  of  nouns 
and  conjugations  of  verbs.  My  teacher,  a  middle-aged  man,  was. 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


to  speak  truly,  tke  most  stupid  person  I  kave  ever  seen  filling 
the  office  of  teacher.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  perfunctory 
than  his  instruction.  If  I  recited  the  text  verbatim^  well  and 
good  ;  if  not,  he  simply  repeated  the  words  for  me  and  nothing 
more.  When  the  spring  vacation  came,  I  determined  to  quit 
Latin,  abandoning  all  thought  of  college,  and  deciding  to  devote 
myself  to  such  English  studies  as  the  school  might  offer.  Dur¬ 
ing  the  vacation  there  came  to  the  school,  from  somewhere  in 
Maine,  a  man  who  had  several  years  before  been  prepared  for 
college,  but  who,  through  some  family  disaster,  had  failed  to  en¬ 
ter.  Having  become  a  zealous  Christian,  he  had  resolved  to  fit 
himself  for  the  Christian  ministry,  and  had  come  to  New  Hamp¬ 
ton  to  review  his  studies  preparatory  to  entering  college  in  the 
autumn.  Becoming  interested  somehow  in  my  welfare,  and  win¬ 
ning  my  confidence,  he  remonstrated  against  my  purpose  to  drop 
the  thought  of  college,  and  insisted  on  my  resuming  the  study 
of  Latin,  with  him  as  my  instructor.  And  he  knew  by  instinct 
how  to  teach.  He  was  the  first  man  that  up  to  that  time  had 
ever  kindled  within  me  a  spark  of  enthusiasm  in  any  study.  He 
soon  had  me  all  aglow.  Till  he  left  for  college  I  was  daily  in  his 
room,  working  with  a  zeal  to  me  never  known  before  nor  equaled 
since.  The  spirit  caught  from  him  survived  throughout  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  the  year,  notwithstanding  the  dreariest  kind  of  teach¬ 
ing.  Mr.  Moses  Curtis,  the  friend  who  thus  saved  me  from  a 
misstep,  was  a  man  of  rare  parts,  of  high  endowments,  and  of 
warm  sympathies.  He  died  of  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs  while  in 
college,  and  seldom  have  I  suffered  so  grievous  a  loss.  With 
the  return  of  spring,  having  outgrown  all  my  clothes,  which 
could  not  be  replaced  where  I  was,  I  started  for  home,  where  I 
was  greeted  on  the  threshold  with  shouts  of  laughter  at  my 
lengthened  limbs  and  apparently  shortened  clothing.  I  was  in¬ 
wardly  more  changed  than  outwardly,  and  was  now  intent  on  a 
college  education. 

I  had  then  to  deeide  whether  I  would  return  to  New  Hamp¬ 
ton.  It  was  not  an  attractive  school ;  at  least,  it  had  no  attrac¬ 
tions  for  me.  A  new  academy  at  Pawtucket,  Mass.,  had  been 
opened,  under  the  principalship  of  Mr.  Joseph  Hale,  a  graduate 
of  Harvard  College.  It  was  decided  that  I  should  enter  it.  At 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


first  I  boarded  in  tbe  family  of  a  young  and  newly  married  phy¬ 
sician  near  the  academy,  but  as  the  spring  drew  near  to  summer, 
an  old  yearning  for  the  country  revived  with  force.  The  dis¬ 
tance  between  the  academy  and  my  country  home  was  two  miles, 
and  I  resolved  to  try  the  experiment  of  walking  it  daily.  The 
experiment  was  a  complete  success.  A  fondness  for  solitary 
country  walks  was  thus  acquired  that  has  never  forsaken  me. 
The  delight  of  the  mornings  and  evenings  in  the  orchards  and 
woods,  and  among  the  birds,  was  incessant.  The  year  passed 
swiftly  by,  and  I  made  fair  progress  under  Mr.  Hale  in  the  study 
of  Greek,  besides  doing  something  in  Latin.  But  there  was  for 
me  in  the  Pawtucket  academy  one  serious  drawback ;  I  had 
and  could  have  no  classmates.  I  needed  instruction  in  three,  if 
not  four,  distinct  branches.  As  a  single  pupil  the  requisite  time 
and  attention  could  not  be  given  me.  The  Hew  Hampton  acad¬ 
emy,  during  my  absence  from  it,  had  undergone  a  change  ;  it  had 
now  younger  and  more  competent  teachers.  There  was  a  class 
of  several  young  men  who  were  to  enter  college  in  the  fall,  and 
I  joined  them.  That  second  summer  among  the  hills  of  Hew 
Hampshire  was  the  happiest  of  all  my  school-days ;  long  strolls, 
pleasant  companionships,  and  withal  teachers  superior  to  those  I 
had  previously  known  there,  made  me  contented  and  joyous.  In 
September  I  entered  Brown  University. 

There  had  been  many  and  radical  defects  in  my  pre-collegiate 
training.  My  instructors,  especially  the  earlier  of  them,  had 
been  of  the  poorest  possible  quality.  Frequent  change  of 
schools  made  what  in  itself  was  bad  still  worse.  If  my  good 
mother,  who  was  intent  on  giving  her  children  the  best  educa¬ 
tion  she  could  provide,  could  have  sent  me  in  my  fourteenth  ’ 
year  either  to  Phillips  Exeter  or  to  Phillips  Andover  Academy, 
instead  of  sending  me  at  a  later  day  almost  directly  past  their 
doors  to  an  inferior  school,  the  result  for  me  would  have  been 
different ;  but  she  was  ill-advised,  and  the  penalty  was  mine. 

I  entered  college  when  I  was  nineteen,  having  among  my 
classmates  several  well-advanced  scholars,  who  had  been  trained 
at  some  of  the  best  preparatory  schools  in  the  country.  I  felt  at 
once  the  inferiority  of  my  preparation  in  comparison  with  theirs, 
and  was  disheartened.  Severe  illness  almost  at  the  outset  drove 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


me  home ;  hence  mj  first  term  in  college  was  nearly  lost  time. 
The  second  was  a  great  improvement  on  the  first.  Could  the  im¬ 
provement  have  progressively  continued,  the  result  of  my  college 
life  would  have  been  different  from  what  it  was ;  but  the  memory 
of  the  first  term  haunted  me ;  my  courage  and  ambition  sank  to 
the  verge  of  extinction.  To  add  to  my  misfortune,  the  most  in¬ 
timate  of  my  friends,  though  pure  in  their  lives  and  morally 
wholesome  as  associates,  were  low  in  their  aims  as  scholars,  sat¬ 
isfied  with  very  little  and  very  superficial  work.  They  had  been 
sent  to  college  to  prepare  for  the  ministry,  and  were  fair  speci¬ 
mens  of  the  average  of  a  class  of  men  not  yet  wholly  extinct. 
Selected,  and  aided  by  beneficiary  funds,  as  “  candidates  for  the 
ministry,”  they  seemed  to  regard  themselves  as  absolved  from 
the  duty  of  high  aims  as  scholars,  and  dropped  into  the  wretched 
cant  of  “  laying  aside  ambition  as  unworthy  the  servants  of  the 
Lord.” 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  my  good-fortune  to  be  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  a  debating  society  composed  of  a  very  different  sort  of 
men  from  those  who  were  my  most  intimate  friends.  In  direct 
education  for  the  real  work  of  life,  no  influences  of  my  college- 
days  were  equal  to  those  of  this  society.  It  called  into  use,  and 
fastened  in  my  memory,  what  little  I  learned  from  text-books 
and  in  lecture-rooms ;  it  prompted  to  inquiries  and  investigations 
that  otherwise  would  never  have  been  made ;  it  stimulated  to  the 
exercise  of  all  my  intellectual  faculties,  as  the  set  tasks  of  pro¬ 
fessors  never  could.  In  many  particulars  the  typical  college  of 
to-day  is  manifestly  superior  to  that  of  fifty  years  ago ;  but,  in 
the  societies  of  its  students  for  the  cultivation  of  literature  and 
skill  in  debate,  its  inferiority  is  too  marked  not  to  awaken  solici¬ 
tude  as  well  as  regret,  in  the  minds  of  all  friends  of  liberal  learn¬ 
ing.  Societies  professedly  literary,  it  is  true,  abound  in  the 
college  of  to-day ;  but  they  are  societies  in  which  social  elements 
so  predominate  over  every  other  that  their  influence  on  college 
life  is  to  enhance  its  expensiveness,  and  to  split  its  classes  into 
rival  cliques,  rather  than  to  quicken  their  intellects  and  to  rouse 
them  to  high  endeavor.  Nothing  yet  devised  has  filled,  or  can 
fill,  as  a  means  of  education,  the  place  of  the  great  debating 
societies,  composed  of  representatives  from  every  class  in  col- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


lege,  at  once  imposing  and  inspiring  from  their  numbers,  which 
were  so  marked  a  feature  of  the  college  of  forty  or  fifty  years 
ago. 

Brown  University,  when  I  became  a  student  in  it,  was  not 
strong  in  its  classical  and  its  mathematical  departments,  which 
then  comprised  the  larger  part  of  its  established  curriculum.  If 
a  student  became  proficient  in  either  of  these  studies,  it  was  in 
spite  of  professorial  influence.  Latin  and  Grreek  could  hardly,  on 
deliberate  purpose,  have  been  more  inefficiently  taught.  In  my 
sophomore  year,  however,  came  a  great  and  radical  change,  com¬ 
paratively  a  revolution,  in  the  teaching  of  Latin.  It  came  with  the 
appointment  of  a  new  professor,  young  and  enthusiastic,  whose 
accurate  methods  and  contagious  spirit  of  enthusiasm  put  new  life 
into  all  his  classes,  and  were  felt  throughout  the  college.  To  this 
young  professor,  Horatio  B.  Hackett,  afterward  known  as  one  of 
the  most  eminent  of  American  biblical  scholars,  I  owe  a  debt  of 
gratitude  such  as  is  due  to  none  of  my  other  teachers  of  language. 
Under  him,  the  year  after  my  graduation,  I  first  studied  German, 
and  when,  in  the  following  year,  he  became  Professor  of  Biblical 
Literature  in  the  Newton  Theological  Institution,  I  followed  him 
thither,  studying  under  him  both  Hebrew  and  New  Testament 
Exegesis,  and  revering  him  as  one  of  the  most  exact  of  scholars 
and  best  of  teachers  ;  and  when,  years  afterward,  I  came  to  know 
him  still  better  as  a  colleague,  I  learned  both  to  love  and  honor 
bim  as  one  of  the  truest  and  most  conscientious  of  scholars 
and  men.  Ehetoric,  when  I  entered  Brown,  was  cultivated  with 
marked  success  under  the  distinguished  professor,  William  E. 
Goddard ;  but  the  class  of  which  I  was  a  member  pursued  that 
study  under  the  tuition  of  the  then  youthful  but  no  less  skillful 
and  since  distinguished  professor,  William  Gammell.  By  no 
means  the  least  valuable  part  of  my  college  education  came  from 
reading  during  the  vacations,  especially  the  long  winter  vaca¬ 
tions,  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  too  much  attention  was 
given  to  the  novels  of  Cooper  and  Scott. 

The  most  profitable  portion  of  my  college  life  was  its  last 
year,  under  the  instruction  of  President  Wayland.  He  was  then 
in  the  ripe  fullness  of  his  powers.  His  specialty  as  a  teacher  was 
moral  science,  though  he  also  taught  political  economy.  But 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED 


tlie  latter  interested  him  only  theoretically ;  the  former  practically 
and  intensely.  His  strong  sense  of  justice  and  his  profound  love 
of  truth  made  him  a  most  impressive  teacher  of  ethics — the  most 
impressive  I  have  ever  known ;  and  his  keen  sense  of  humor, 
his  quick  wit,  his  appreciation  of  wit  in  others,  always  made 
his  recitation-room  a  very  lively  place.  He  was  no  metaphy¬ 
sician  ;  his  moral  science,  even  in  its  distinctively  theoretic  por¬ 
tions,  was  more  practical  than  metaphysical,  no  part  of  it  rest¬ 
ing  on  any  metaphysical  system,  avowed  or  implied.  When  I 
was  his  pupil,  mental  philosophy,  even  on  its  psychological  side, 
had  received  from  him  only  casual  attention.  His  treatise  on 
“  Intellectual  Philosophy  ”  was  written  after  I  had  passed  from 
under  him,  and  years  after  his  views  of  moral  science  had  be¬ 
come  inflexibly  fixed.  Hor  was  he  widely  read  in  the  science 
of  ethics.  Allusions  in  his  lecture-room  to  authors  whose  views 
differed  from  his  own  were  extremely  rare.  He  had  thought  out 
his  ethical  principles  for  himself,  and  his  convictions  were  clear 
and  strong,  and  rooted  in  the  very  depths  of  his  being.  Above 
all  men  whom  I  ever  knew,  he  was  himself  the  embodiment  of 
what  he  taught.  Clear  and  analytic  in  his  own  thinking,  he  in¬ 
sisted  on  analyzed  and  logical  thought  in  his  pupils.  Possessed  of 
a  stature  and  a  muscular  development  and  a  physiognomy  that 
would  have  made  him  an  admirable  model  for  a  Jupiter  Tonans, 
and  animated  by  a  spirit  that  lifted  him  above  everything  selfish 
and  mean,  he  succeeded  beyond  every  other  college  president 
of  his  time,  I  suspect,  in  impressing  himself  and  his  sentiments 
on  all  who  came  under  his  instruction. 

The  class  of  which  I  was  a  member  had  the  good-fortune  to 
be  under  Dr.  W ayland  in  a  year  specially  favorable  for  the  best 
results  of  his  teaching.  It  was  the  year  in  which  he  was  writing 
and  sending  to  the  press  his  once  famous  little  book  on  “  The 
Limitations  of  Human  Responsibility.”  His  “  Moral  Science  ” 
had  pleased  neither  slaveholders  nor  abolitionists.  It  had 
offended  the  former  by  going  too  far  in  its  condemnation  of 
slavery ;  the  latter  by  not  going  far  enough.  He  was  between 
two  raging  fires.  To  defend  himself,  chiefly  against  the  aboli¬ 
tionists,  he  wrote  his  “  Limitations.”  Most  of  the  positions  taken, 
and  of  the  principles  defended,  came  up  for  questioning  and  dis- 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  cf  ILLINOIS. 

HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 

CTission  by  our  class.  The  teacher  was  full  of  bis  subject,  en¬ 
couraging  and  entering  into  tbe  discussions  with  the  liveliest 
zest.  And  our  class  contained,  in  proportion  to  its  size — com¬ 
prising  but  thirty  students — an  unusual  number  of  bright  intel¬ 
lects,  furnishing  afterward  two  chief -justices,  one  United  States 
minister  to  a  foreign  court,  one  bishop,  several  professors  in  the 
higher  institutions  of  learning,  and  the  author  of  the  Civil  Ser¬ 
vice  Eeform  Bill.  The  mutual  stimulus  of  the  class  was  no  un- 
important  factor  in  our  education. 

I  left  college  with  perhaps  an  average  knowledge  of  Latin, 
Greek,  and  mathematics ;  of  modern  languages,  history,  and 
mental  science  I  had  learned  nothing ;  of  chemistry,  physiology, 
and  geology  I  had  acquired  a  smattering ;  of  Butler’s  “  Analogy 
and  of  ethics  I  had  obtained  a  fair  degree  of  knowledge.  I  had 
drifted  aimlessly  into  college  and  drifted  aimlessly  through  it, 
waking  up  only  during  the  last  year  to  see  what  I  might  and 
ought  to  have  done.  A  year  of  indecision  and  semi-idleness 
brought  me  to  the  determination  to  become  a  student  of  theol¬ 
ogy,  and  to  enter  the  Christian  ministry.  I  then  went  to  work 
in  earnest,  with  a  will  and  a  purpose,  giving  my  days  to  pre¬ 
scribed  work,  reserving  an  hour  or  two  for  German  and  asso¬ 
ciate  readings  with  chosen  fellow-students,  and  devoting  my 
evenings  to  philosophy  and  literature.  Uot  a  little  of  what  was 
given  as  theological  instruction  was  about  as  insipid  and  unin¬ 
spiring  as  concentrated  dullness  could  make  it.  Two  of  the 
professors,  however — Hackett,  already  alluded  to,  and  Barnas 
Sears,  afterward  occupant  of  various  high  offices — gave  by  their 
examples  and  their  quickening  words  a  bias  and  impulse  to  my 
mind,  and  directed  it  toward  lines  of  inquiry  that  I  have  never 
since  wholly  ceased  to  pursue.  To  the  teachers  into  whose  hands 
I  fell  during  the  first  sixteen  years  of  my  life  I  find  it  impos¬ 
sible  to  be  grateful ;  of  those  whom  I  subsequently  met,  for  the 
good  offices  of  some  I  am  profoundly  thankful,  while  for  the 
services  of  others  my  grateful  emotions  have  not  always  been 
irrepressible. 

-  E.  G.  Bobinson. 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


I  SHALL  aim  to  make  tkis  sketck,  fnrnislied  at  tke  request  of 
tke  editor,  as  far  as  possible  a  description  of  the  manner  in  which 
a  boy  in  Ehode  Island  was  taught,  in  school  and  in  college,  in  * 
the  third  and  fourth  decades  of  this  century.  A  study  of  the 
methods  then  employed  may  not  be  without  interest  and  profit 
to  some,  especially  to  those  who  are  familiar  only  with  the  more 
recent  methods. 

Being  born  in  a  country  town,  from  the  age  of  three  years  to 
that  of  seven  I  attended  the  district  schools  of  the  neighbor¬ 
hood.  The  furniture  and  the  organization  of  the  schools  were 
alike  simple.  So  far  as  I  can  recollect,  there  was  a  fairly  earnest 
spirit  of  study  among  those  hardy  farmers’  boys  and  girls.  The 
young  man  who  had  “  ciphered  through  ”  Daboll’s  Arithmetic 
was  something  of  a  hero,  and  his  presence  and  occasional  assist¬ 
ance  stimulated  the  younger  pupils  to  imitation.  To  make  our 
writing-books  we  purchased  paper,  folded  and  stitched  the  sheets, 
covered  them  with  brown  paper,  and  ruled  the  lines  with  our 
plummets.  In  the  winter,  the  thawing  of  inkstands  and  the 
mending  of  our  goose-quill  pens  consumed  a  good  part  of  the 
first  hour.  At  a  pretty  early  age  a  bright  scholar  would  have 
covered  the  whole  range  of  study  offered,  and  if,  as  often  hap¬ 
pened,  he  continued  to  attend  the  school,  he  could  simply  cipher 
through  his  familiar  Daboll  again  and  again.  But  perhaps, 
owing  to  this  repetition,  the  old-fashioned  district  school  did  so 
ground  many  a  man  in  the  elements  of  scholarship  that  the  edu¬ 
cation  stood  him  in  good  stead  in  the  discharge  of  the  duties  of 
life.  I  have  sometimes  questioned  whether,  in  our  pride  over 
the  schools  of  later  days,  we  have  not  unwittingly  failed  to  do 
full  justice  to  the  work  accomplished  in  the  rude  country  school- 
houses  of  the  past  generation. 

When  I  was  seven  years  of  age  a  Quaker  teacher  came  into 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


our  neighborliood,  and  opened  a  boarding  and  day  school,  in 
wbich  pupils  could  be  carried  farther  and  taught  better  than  in 
the  district  school.  I  was  transferred  to  his  school,  and  remained 
there  four  years  or  more.  In  this  private  school,  as  in  the  dis¬ 
trict  schools,  there  was  little  attempt  at  classification ;  in  teach¬ 
ing  arithmetic,  algebra,  and  surveying,  none  at  all.  Each  pupil 
advanced  as  rapidly  as  he  could.  The  teacher  came  round 
at  least  twice  in  the  day  to  inspect  the  work  done  on  the  slate, 
to  ask  explanations,  and  to  remove  difiiculties.  The  instruction 
was  thus  emphatically  personal.  The  teacher  reached  each  one 
of  us  individually,  and  adapted  his  instruction  to  our  respective 
needs  and  peculiarities.  The  bright  and  diligent  were  not  de¬ 
layed  by  the  dull;  the  dull  had  opportunity  to  see  what  the 
bright  and  diligent  could  accomplish.  We  had  to  copy  all 
our  mathematical  examples,  with  the  full  operation,  into  our 
manuscript  books,  in  a  neat  hand.  The  work  which  we  did 
under  this  thorough  and  exacting  teacher  none  of  us  ever  had 
to  do  over  again.  Better  elementary  instruction  one  could  not 
ask.  The  discipline  in  this  school,  as  in  the  district  schools,  was 
strict.  The  ferule  and  the  rawhide  were  not  excluded  by  the 
adherence  of  the  teacher  to  the  peaceful  doctrines  of  Greorge 
Fox,  and  his  hot  and  hasty  temper  was  not  altogether  checked 
by  the  soothing  meditations  of  the  First  Day  and  Fifth  Day 
meetings.  But  a  good  number  of  gray -haired  men  in  Ehode 
Island  remember  with  appreciation  the  solid  English  education 
which  the  stern  Quaker,  Isaac  Fiske,  imparted  to  them  in  the 
schoolhouse  in  Scituate.  Is  it  so  clear  as  some  think  that  the 
classification  of  students,  however  carefully  arranged,  yields 
better  results  than  this  personal  method  of  instruction?  Of 
course,  this  personal  method  is  possible  only  where  the  number 
of  pupils  is  small. 

By  the  time  I  was  twelve  years  old  this  good  teacher  had 
carried  me  through  all  the  studies  he  undertook  to  teach,  in¬ 
cluding  algebra  to  equations  of  the  second  degree,  and  surveying. 
He  then  frankly  told  my  parents  that  I  ought  to  be  sent  to  some 
school  where  I  could  be  taught  Latin.  Accordingly,  I  went  to 
the  academy  in  Seekonk,  Mass.  I  found  that  my  Quaker  teacher 
had  carried  me,  in  mathematics,  quite  beyond  the  point  reached 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


in  tlie  academy  by  boys  of  my  age,  and  it  was  decided  that  I 
should  give  my  whole  time  to  Latin.  And  here  I  received  a 
most  impressive  lesson  on  the  contrast  between  an  irrational  and 
a  rational  mode  of  teaching  Latin,  and  also  on  the  benefit  of  con¬ 
centration  of  the  mind  on  one  study.  A  class  of  boys  a  little 
older  than  I  had  been  studying  for  nearly  two  years  the  Latin 
Grammar,  committing  to  memory  the  long  abstract  rules  and  lists 
of  exceptions  to  the  rules,  but  had  been  ashed  to  read  hardly  any 
Latin.  They  were  then  learning  the  syntax.  A  more  horrible 
torture  could  scarcely  be  imagined  for  criminals.  The  absurdity 
and  the  cruelty  of  the  process  are  almost  equally  unimaginable. 
Fortunately,  as  the  principal  was  too  busy  to  take  charge  of  me, 
I  was  turned  over  to  a  lady  teacher,  and  formed  a  class  by  my¬ 
self.  She  taught  me  by  a  more  rational  method,  allowing  me  to 
regale  myself  with  translations  of  easy  Latin  as  soon  as  I  had 
mastered  the  chief  paradigms.  She  led  me  through  the  most  im¬ 
portant  rules  of  syntax,  but  did  not  load  me  down  with  the  in¬ 
terminable  lists  of  exceptions.  The  consequence  was,  that  at  the 
end  of  three  months  I  could  read  simple  Latin  with  that  pleasure 
which  a  child  always  finds  in  the  consciousness  that  he  can  un¬ 
derstand  a  strange  tongue,  and  I  was  informed  that  I  could  join 
the  class  which  had  been  studying  two  years  by  that  other 
ridiculous  method,  and  which  at  last  it  was  deemed  safe  to  put 
to  work  on  C^sar  or  Yirgil.  But  I  did  not  return  to  that  school. 

An  academy  having  been  established  about  this  time  in  my 
native  town,  I  studied  there  for  most  of  the  time  during  the  two 
following  years.  The  two  principal  male  instructors,  Eev.  Hosea 
Quinby  and  Mr.  S.  L.  Weld,  were  men  of  experience  in  the  tra¬ 
ditional  methods  of  the  New  England  academy.  Without 
being  able  to  lay  claim  to  reputation  for  exact  scholarship,  they 
had  a  genuine  love  of  learning,  a  devotion  to  their  profession, 
and  the  gift  of  interesting  and,  in  a  fair  degree,  at  least,  of  stimu¬ 
lating  pupils.  Most  of  the  pupils  were  farmers’  sons  and  daugh¬ 
ters,  who  desired  to  supplement  the  attainments  they  had  made 
in  the  district  school  by  a  few  months  of  study  in  more  ad¬ 
vanced  branches.  A  few  studied  Latin  and  Greek,  with  a  more 
or  less  distinct  purpose  of  preparing  themselves  for  college. 
With  no  such  distinct  purpose,  I  also  studied  the  ancient  Ian- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


guages,  and  pushed  on  through  algebra  and  geometry.  In  addi¬ 
tion,  I  took  nearly  all  the  scientific  instruction  which  was  given^ 
and  the  course  in  mental  philosophy.  No  plan  had  been  marked 
out  for  me.  Being  fond  of  study,  and  almost  equally  fond  of  all 
branches,  I  took  nearly  everything  that  was  taught,  merely  be¬ 
cause  it  was  taught.  There  was  an  excellent  spirit  of  study  in 
the  school.  Many  of  the  students  were  men  in  years.  They  had 
saved  a  little  money,  earned  by  painful  toil,  to  secure  some  ampler 
furnishing  for  their  minds.  They  set  us  boys  an  example  of  hard 
work,  and  inspired  us  with  manly  purpose.  Some  of  them  were 
awkward  and  uncouth  in  manners,  and  slow  in  their  mental  proc¬ 
esses,  but  they  were  for  the  most  part  thoroughly  in  earnest,  and 
gave  a  wholesome  tone  to  the  school.  One  thing,  which  I  have 
remarked  in  other  country  academies,  was  specially  noticeable  in 
this,  owing  to  the  presence  of  so  many  students  of  mature  years, 
namely,  a  strong  liking  for  the  discussion  of  metaphysical  and 
theological  questions.  I  fear  that  the  light  we  had  on  such 
questions  was  mainly  darkness. 

The  best  instruction  in  this,  and,  I  think,  in  similar  New 
England  academies  of  that  day,  was  in  mathematics.  English 
was  taught  by  the  profitless  method  of  parsing  Pope’s  “  Essay 
on  Man,”  and  even  Pollock’s  “  Course  of  Time.”  The  ideals  of 
style  which  were  cherished,  whether  in  writing  or  speaking,  were 
seriously  lacking  in  simplicity  and  directness.  The  sciences  were 
illustrated  so  far  as  the  meager  collection  of  apparatus  and  speci¬ 
mens  would  permit.  In  the  classics  the  method  would  not  now 
be  regarded  as  sufficiently  critical.  Without  being  unduly  delayed 
by  nice  grammatical  questions,  we  were  encouraged  to  read  on 
as  rapidly  as  we  could.  We  pushed  forward  so  briskly  that  we 
soon  caught  the  swing  and  the  flow  of  the  Yirgilian  verse,  and 
read  the  Mantuan  bard  with  delight,  in  the  last  books  at  the 
rate  of  three  hundred  lines  a  day.  In  this  way,  by  the  time  I  was 
fourteen  years  old  I  had  been  carried  in  my  studies  considerably 
beyond  the  requirements  for  admission  to  college,  and  yet  I  had 
no  definite  purpose  of  going  to  college.  And  as  I  look  back  on 
the  work  done  in  those  now  dead  or  moribund  country  academies 
of  New  England,  I  must  say  that  with  all  their  defects  they  ren¬ 
dered  a  service  of  inestimable  value  in  their  day.  They  supple- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


merited  the  work  of  the  district  schools,  they  furnished  teachers 
for  those  schools,  they  gave  to  many  men  a  pretty  good  education 
and  a  love  of  study  which  together  enabled  them  to  occupy  in  a 
creditable  manner  responsible  positions  in  state  and  in  church. 
I  recall  now  the  names  of  two  of  my  fellow-pupils  in  the  academy 
who  went  directly  from  the  school  to  the  pulpit,  and  became 
preachers  of  considerable  distinction,  while  several  others  became 
conspicuous  in  business  and  in  political  life.  I  speak  of  this 
because  I  think  I  have  noticed  a  disposition  in  our  day,  in  prais¬ 
ing  justly  the  modern  high-school,  to  fail  somewhat  in  apprecia¬ 
tion  of  what  was  accomplished  by  the  old  academy. 

Some  of  my  friends  having  fancied  that  I  was  endangering 
my  health  by  long  and  close  application  to  study,  it  was  decided 
that  I  had  best  spend  some  time  at  work  on  my  father’s  farm. 
Accordingly,  for  two  seasons,  from  early  spring  till  late  autumn, 
I  went  to  the  field  with  the  hired  men,  hoeing  my  row  and  mow¬ 
ing  my  swath,  and  familiarizing  myself  thoroughly  with  all  the 
details  of  farmers’  work.  Much  of  this  I  had,  of  course,  learned 
before,  in  my  vacations.  I  prize  very  highly  the  education  I  re¬ 
ceived  in  those  two  years.  I  learned  how  much  back-ache  a  dollar 
earned  in  the  field  represents.  From  daily  and  close  association 
with  the  laboring  men  I  learned  how  the  world  looked  from  their 
point  of  view.  Many  a  time  subsequently,  when  tempted  to  grow 
weary  of  my  tasks  in  study,  I  remembered  how  much  severer 
were  the  fatigues  and  monotony  of  the  work  of  the  farmer’s 
boy,  and  addressed  myself  with  fresh  zeal  to  my  labor.  It  is 
certainly  not  a  bad  fortune,  but  a  good  fortune,  for  a  boy  at 
some  time  to  have  known  by  experience  what  hard  and  con¬ 
tinuous  manual  toil  means. 

After  hesitating  some  time  between  seeking  a  clerkship  in  a 
business  establishment  and  accepting  the  generous  offer  of  my 
parents  to  send  me  to  college,  which  they  were  scarcely  able  to 
do,  I  decided  to  go  to  college.  Conscious  that  my  classics  had 
become  rusty,  I  went  for  the  larger  part  of  a  school  year  to  the 
University  Grammar  School  in  Providence,  then  under  the  charge 
of  Mr.  Lyon,  who  still  shares  in  the  conduct  of  it,  and  of  Mr. 
Frieze,  now  the  accomplished  Professor  of  Latin  in  the  Univer¬ 
sity  of  Michigan.  My  studies  were  mainly  in  the  classes  of  the 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


latter.  Contact  witli  this  inspiring  teacher  formed  an  epoch  in 
mv  intellectual  life,  as  in  that  of  many  other  boys.  He  repre¬ 
sented  the  best  type  of  the  modern  teacher,  at  once  critical  as 
a  grammarian  and  stimulating  with  the  finest  appreciation  of 
whatever  was  choicest  in  the  classic  masterpieces.  At  first,  as 
we  were  showered  with  questions  such  as  I  had  never  heard  be¬ 
fore,  it  seemed  to  me,  although  the  reading  of  the  Latin,  at  least, 
was  mainly  a  review  to  me,  that  I  should  never  emerge  from  my 
state  of  ignorance.  But  there  was  such  a  glow  of  enthusiasm 
in  the  instructor  and  in  the  class,  there  was  such  delight  in  the 
tension  in  which  we  were  kept  by  the  daily  exercises,  that  no  task 
seemed  too  great  to  be  encountered.  Though  we  devoured  the 
Latin  Grammar  so  that  by  the  end  of  the  year  we  could  repeat 
almost  the  whole  of  it,  paradigms,  rules,  and  exceptions,  without 
prompting,  the  work  of  mastering  it  did  not  seem  onerous,  for  we 
now  felt  how  the  increasing  accuracy  of  our  knowledge  of  the 
structure  of  the  language  enhanced  our  enjoyment  of  the  Yirgil 
and  the  Cicero,  whose  subtile  and  less  obvious  charms  we  were 
aided  by  our  teacher  to  appreciate.  The  example  set  in  that 
school  was  instrumental  in  establishing  the  high  standard  of  teach¬ 
ing  which  a  few  schools  in  Providence  have  long  maintained. 

I  entered  Brown  University  in  1845.  The  college  was  under 
the  charge  of  a  small  but  able  Faculty,  every  member  of  which 
was  well  fitted  for  his  work,  and  gratefully  do  I  acknowledge  my 
special  obligations  to  each :  to  Dr.  Caswell,  whose  gracious  man¬ 
ner  made  the  thorny  road  of  mathematics  pleasant,  even  to  those 
who  had  little  aptitude  for  the  study,  and  whose  serene  wisdom 
was  a  lamp  to  the  feet  of  so  many  a  student ;  to  the  acute  and 
vigorous  Chase,  equally  skillful  in  teaching  the  sciences  and 
philosophy  ;  to  the  critical  Gammell,  whose  high  ideals  of  style 
were,  if  sometimes  the  despair,  yet  oftener  the  inspiration,  of 
youthful  writers ;  to  those  now  renowned  teachers  of  the  classics, 
Boise  and  Lincoln,  who  are  still  living  in  a  green  old  age  to  re¬ 
ceive  the  grateful  tributes  of  the  successive  generations  of  their 
pupils,  and  are  still  actively  engaged  in  teaching ;  and  to  Charles 
C.  Jewett  and  George  Washington  Greene,  who,  in  teaching 
the  modern  languages,  imparted  to  many  something  of  their 
own  passion  for  letters.  The  robust  personality  of  the  presi- 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


dent,  Dr.  Wayland,  was  felt  througliont  the  whole  life  of  the 
institution.  The  discipline,  which  was  administered  exclu¬ 
sively  by  him,  was  unnecessarily  rigorous,  the  standard  of 
scholarship  was  high,  the  intellectual  demands  upon  the  students 
were  exacting.  For  those  who  attained  high  rank  the  life  was  a 
strenuous  one.  The  method  pursued  was  specially  calculated 
to  cultivate  the  powers  of  analysis  and  memory.  Wherever  the 
subject  permitted  of  such  treatment,  we  were  always  required 
to  begin  the  recitation  by  giving  an  analysis  of  the  discussion  in 
the  text-book  or  the  lecture.  We  were  then  expected  to  take  up 
point  after  point  of  the  lesson  and  recite  without  being  aided  by 
questions  from  the  teacher.  There  was  a  general  belief  among 
the  students,  though  no  formal  statement  to  that  effect  was  made 
by  the  Faculty,  that  they  would  gain  higher  credits  by  repeating 
the  language  of  the  book  than  by  reporting  the  substance  of  the 
thought  in  their  own  language.  By  dint  of  continued  memoriz¬ 
ing  some  of  the  students  attained  to  a  remarkable  development 
of  the  verbal  memory.  I  think  that  nearly  one-fourth  of  the  men 
in  my  class  in  their  senior  year  used  to  learn  in  two  hours — and 
that  after  an  indigestible  dinner  in  Commons — fifteen  pages  of 
Smyth’s  “  Lectures  on  History,”  so  that  they  could  repeat  them 
with  little  variation  from  the  text.  The  training  in  analysis  was 
of  very  high  value  in  teaching  men  to  seize  and  hold  the  main 
points  in  an  argument  and  to  make  points  distinctly  in  the  con¬ 
struction  of  a  discourse.  On  looking  back,  I  think  most  of  the 
old  students  will  agree  that  too  much  value  was  attached  to 
memoriter  recitations.  But  none  the  less  many  of  them  have 
found  great  advantage  in  life  in  the  facility  which  they  acquired 
in  retaining  with  accuracy  what  they  read  or  write.  The  re¬ 
action  against  training  the  memory  has  probably  gone  too  far 
in  these  later  days.  The  natural  sciences  were  taught  as  skillfully 
as  they  well  could  be  in  an  overcrowded  curriculum,  and  in  days 
when  laboratory  methods  were  not  employed.  Personally  I 
gained  great  advantage  by  being  permitted  to  assist  the  Professor 
of  Chemistry  two  years,  in  preparing  the  experiments  which  he 
made  before  the  class.  In  the  ancient  languages,  certainly  in 
Greek,  I  think  the  professors  who  taught  us  would  now  say  too 
much  time  was  given  to  grammatical  and  philological  detail  and 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


too  little  to  rapid  reading.  But  their  method  was  then  generally 
in  vogue,  and  the  teaching  was  excellent  of  its  kind. 

To  nearly  every  student  the  most  important  event  in  his 
college  life  in  those  days  was  the  contact  with  the  vigorous  and 
suggestive  mind  of  Dr.  Wayland,  in  the  senior  classroom,  and 
especially  during  the  study  of  moral  philosophy.  It  is  difficult 
for  those  who  know  Dr.  W  ay  land  only  by  his  writings,  valuable 
as  some  of  them  are,  to  understand  how  he  made  so  deep  an  im¬ 
pression  on  his  pupils.  In  truth,  he  was  a  man  far  greater  than 
his  published  works.  He  was  not  a  great  scholar ;  he  was  im¬ 
perious,  sometimes  prejudiced ;  but  his  mind  was  singularly 
penetrating  and  lucid.  He  had  in  a  wonderful  degree  two  gifts 
of  a  great  teacher,  the  power  of  analyzing  a  subject  and  the 
power  of  simple  and  happy  illustration.  He  insisted  on  the 
clearest  and  sharpest  definition  of  terms  before  answering  a  ques¬ 
tion  or  engaging  in  a  discussion,  and  thus  often  made  the  in¬ 
quirer  answer  his  own  question  by  an  accurate  definition,  or 
rendered  the  discussion  superfluous.  Withal,  he  had  the  keenest 
wit  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  men,  especially  of  students. 
He  had  the  happiest  way,  often  a  homely  way,  of  stating  an  im¬ 
portant  truth  so  that  it  remained  forever  fixed  in  the  mind  of 
the  hearer.  There  was  too,  beyond  all  this,  a  certain  power  of 
personal  presence,  a  force  of  character,  a  moral  strength,  which 
lent  a  tremendous  weight  to  even  his  commonest  words.  I  have 
met  in  my  day  not  a  few  distinguished  men ;  but  I  recall  none 
who  have  so  impressed  me  with  their  power  of  personality,  none 
who  have  uttered  so  many  wise  words  which  I  recall  every  week 
to  my  advantage  and  help  in  the  duties  of  my  daily  life.  He  was  a 
very  inapt  pupil  who  passed  from  under  Dr.  Wayland’s  instruc¬ 
tion  without  catching  something  of  his  catholic  spirit,  his  passion¬ 
ate  love  of  soul-liberty,  and  his  earnest  Christian  principle. 

But  to  us  country  boys,  as  we  entered  upon  college  life, 
nothing  was  more  fascinating  and  more  novel  and  more  helpful 
than  the  access  to  well -furnished  libraries,  and  the  society  of 
students  of  marked  ability  and  scholarly  enthusiasm.  The  boys 
who  are  reared  in  the  neighborhood  of  libraries  can  have  no 
appreciation  of  the  sensations  which  we  country  lads,  whose 
supply  of  books  had  been  the  most  meager  imaginable,  but 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


whose  thirst  for  reading  was  insatiable,  experienced  in  being 
ushered  into  a  large  library  and  told  that  all  these  books  were 
now  at  our  service.  I  sometimes  tremble  to  think  what  an  on¬ 
slaught  we  made  upon  the  crowded  shelves.  Fortunately,  as¬ 
sociation  with  older  students  soon  helped  us  learn  how  and 
what  to  read.  For  there  was  at  that  time — and,  I  hope,  always 
— in  Brown  a  profound  interest  in  literary  culture.  The  stu¬ 
dents,  with  few  exceptions,  lodged  in  the  dormitories,  and  took 
their  meals  in  Commons  Hall.  They  went  little  into  society 
in  the  city.  They  were  thus  drawn  very  close  to  each  other. 
The  enthusiasm  of  the  more  gifted  and  accomplished  scholars 
was  caught  in  some  degree  by  nearly  all.  I  remember  that 
men  were  divided  as  Carlyleists  or  anti-Carlyleists,  Coleridge- 
ians  or  anti-Coleridgeians,  and  so  on,  and  that  literary,  historic, 
and  philosophic  theories  were  as  hotly  discussed  as  the  cur¬ 
rent  political  questions  of  the  day.  Hot  wishing  to  be  un¬ 
duly  laudator  temporis  acti^  I  am  sure  that  whoever  examines 
the  triennial  catalogue  of  Brown  for  the  years  from  1845  to 
1852  will  see  that  the  college  contained  within  its  walls  in  those 
years  a  good  number,  perhaps  an  exceptionally  large  number,  of 
men  whose  lives  have  shown  that  it  must  have  been  a  high 
privilege  to  be  intimately  associated  with  them  in  the  compan¬ 
ionship  of  student  life.  The  society  of  some  of  them  has  been 
one  of  the  chief  factors  in  my  own  education,  both  in  college 
and  afterward,  and  one  of  the  chief  delights  of  life.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  that  any  student  in  Brown  University  who  did 
not  graduate  in  those  days  with  a  mind  well  disciplined  for 
entering  upon  any  worthy  career,  was  himself  greatly  at  fault. 

During  the  next  three  or  four  years,  having  been  prevented 
by  an  affection  of  the  throat  from  studying  for  one  of  the  profes¬ 
sions,  I  “  was  educated  ”  mainly  by  a  year  of  service  as  assistant 
in  the  college  library,  by  a  journey  •  on  horseback  through  the 
southern  States,  by  some  months’  experience  as  a  student  and 
assistant  in  the  office  of  the  City  Engineer  of  Boston  (mainly 
engaged  on  the  Cochituate  water-works),  and  by  a  residence  of 
nearly  two  years  in  France,  Italy,  and  Germany.  Most  of  the 
time  while  abroad  I  was  studying  to  prepare  myself  for  the 
chair  of  Modern  Languages  in  Brown  University,  the  choice 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


between  which  chair  and  the  chair  of  Civil  Engineering  was 
offered  me  soon  after  my  arrival  in  Europe.  Of  the  varied 
charms  and  stimulations,  of  the  broadening  of  the  intellectual 
horizon,  of  the  enriching  of  the  whole  mental  life,  “  the  ampler 
ether  and  diviner  air,”  which  study  in  the  Old  World  and 
especially  at  the  great  universities  brings  to  the  young  Amer¬ 
ican,  I  cannot  here  adequately  speak. 

At  this  point,  with  my  assumption  of  the  chair  of  Modern 
Languages  in  Brown  University,  in  1853,  I  suppose  this  sketch 
is  expected  to  close.  Otherwise  I  should  be  tempted  to  add  a 
few  words  concerning  one  of  the  main  factors  in  my  later  educa¬ 
tion,  my  experience  as  editor  of  the  Providence  “  Daily  Journal  ” 
from  1860  to  1866.  But,  after  all,  how  little  can  one  tell  of  his 
real  education,  and  how  much  that  is  best  in  it  lies  this  side  of 
school  and  of  college ! 

James  B.  Angell. 


c 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


When  an  ill-inspired  official  sprinkled  Lempriere’s  “Classical 
Dictionary  ”  over  central  New  York,  there  fell  to  a  beautiful  valley 
upon  the  head-waters  of  the  Susquehanna  the  name  of  Homer. 
Hither  came,  toward  the  end  of  the  last  century,  a  body  of 
sturdy  young  New  Englanders,  and  among  them  my  grand¬ 
fathers  and  grandmothers.  Their  first  public  care  was  a  church, 
their  second  a  school.  This  school  was  speedily  developed  into 
Cortland  Academy ;  students  came  from  far  and  near,  and  it  soon 
began  sending  young  men  into  the  foremost  places  of  State  and 
Church.  At  an  early  day,  too,  it  began  receiving  young  women 
and  sending  them  forth  to  become  the  best  of  matrons. 

Though  I  was  never  within  its  walls  as  a  student,  this  school 
acted  powerfully  upon  my  early  education  in  two  ways.  It 
educated  my  mother,  and  it  spread  through  that  region  an 
atmosphere  of  respect  for  education  and  culture.  The  library 
and  collections,  though  small,  suggested  pursuits  better  than  the 
scramble  for  place  or  pelf ;  the  public  exercises  led  men’s 
thoughts,  no  matter  how  vaguely,  into  higher  regions.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  awe  which  came  over  me  when,  as  a  child,  I 
saw  Principal  Woolworth,  with  his  best  students  around  him, 
making  astronomical  observations  through  a  small  telescope. 
Then  began  my  education  into  that  great  truth,  so  imperfectly 
as  yet  understood  in  our  country,  that  stores,  hotels,  shops, 
facilities  for  travel  and  traffic,  are  not  the  highest  things  in 
civilization. 

Influences  more  direct  came  from  a  primary  school.  To  this 
I  was  taken,  when  three  years  old,  for  a  reason  which  may  strike 
the  present  generation  as  curious.  The  servant  who  had  charge 
of  me  wished  to  learn  to  read ;  so  she  slipped  into  the  school, 
and  took  me  with  her.  As  a  result,  though  my  memory  runs 
back  distinctly  to  events  near  the  beginning  of  my  fourth  year, 


UOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


it  holds  not  the  faintest  recollection  of  my  learning  to  read, 
or  of  a  time  when  I  could  not  read  easily.  The  only  studies 
which  I  recall  with  distinctness,  as  carried  on  before  my 
seventh  year,  are  arithmetic  and  geography.  As  to  the  former, 
the  multiplication-table  was  learned  by  rote  and  chanted  in 
chorus  by  the  whole  body  of  children,  a  rhythmical  and  varied 
movement  of  the  arms  being  carried  on  at  the  same  time.  I  re¬ 
member  only  that  this  exercise  gave  us  all  great  pleasure,  and 
fastened  the  tables  into  my  mind  forever.  As  to  geography,  that 
gave  pleasure  in  another  way  :  the  text-book  contained  pictures ; 
these  stimulated  my  imagination  and  prompted  me  to  read  on 
the  subjects  to  which  they  referred. 

There  was  no  over-pressure.  Mental  recreation  was  obtained 
in  a  loose  way  from  the  “  Eollo  ”  books,  the  “  Parley  ”  books, 
“  Sandford  and  Merton,”  the  “  Children’s  Magazine,”  and  the 
like.  Of  physical  recreation  there  was  plenty  in  the  fields  and 
woods. 

In  my  eighth  year  the  family  removed  to  Syracuse,  a  town 
which  then  had  about  five  thousand  inhabitants.  After  much 
time  lost  in  various  poor  schools,  I  was  sent  to  the  preparatory 
department  of  the  Syracuse  Academy,  and  there,  by  good  luck, 
found  J oseph  A.  Allen,  the  best  teacher  of  English  branches  I 
have  ever  known.  He  had  no  rules  and  no  system ;  or,  rather, 
his  rule  was  to  have  no  rules,  and  his  system  was  to  have  no 
system.  To  most  teachers  this  might  have  been  fatal ;  but  he 
had  genius.  He  seemed  to  divine  the  character  and  enter  into 
the  purpose  of  every  boy.  Work  under  him  was  a  pleasure. 
His  methods  were  very  simple.  Great  attention  was  given 
to  reading  aloud  from  a  book  made  up  of  selections  from  the 
best  authors,  and  to  recitals  from  these.  Thus  I  stored  up  not 
only  some  of  the  best  things  in  the  older  English  writers,  but 
inspiring  poems  of  Whittier,  Longfellow,  and  other  moderns.  I 
only  regret  that  more  of  the  same  sort  was  not  done.  I  recall, 
among  treasures  thus  gained,  which  have  been  precious  to  me 
ever  since,  in  many  a  weary  or  sleepless  hour  on  land  and  sea,  ex¬ 
tracts  from  Shakespeare,  parts  of  Milton’s  “Samson  Agonistes” 
and  of  his  sonnets,  Gray’s  “  Elegy,”  Byron’s  “  Ode  to  the  Ocean,” 
Campbell’s  “  What’s  Hallowed  Ground?  ”  Goldsmith’s  “  Deserted 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


Village,”  Longfellow’s  “Psalm  of  Life,”  Irving’s  “Voyage  to 
Europe,”  and  parts  of  Webster’s  reply  to  Hayne. 

At  tbis  school  the  wretched  bugbear  of  English  spelling  was 
dealt  with  by  a  method  that,  so  long  as  our  present  monstrous 
orthography  continues,  seems  to  me  the  best  possible.  During 
the  last  half-hour  of  every  day,  each  scholar  was  required  to 
have  before  him  a  copy-book,  of  which  each  page  was  divided 
into  two  columns.  At  the  head  of  the  first  column  was  the 
word  “  Spelling ;  ”  at  the  head  of  the  second  column  was  the 
word  “Corrected.”  The  teacher  then  gave  out  to  the  school 
about  twenty  of  the  more  important  words  in  the  reading-lesson 
of  the  day,  and,  as  he  thus  dictated  each  word,  each  scholar  wrote 
it  in  the  column  headed  “  Spelling.”  When  all  the  words  were 
thus  written,  the  first  scholar  was  asked  to  spell  from  his  book 
the  first  word.  If  misspelled  it  was  passed  to  the  next,  and  so 
on  until  it  was  spelled  correctly,  whereupon  all  who  had  made  a 
mistake  in  writing  it  wrote  the  correct  spelling  in  the  opposite 
column.  The  result  of  this  was  that  the  greater  part  of  us 
learned  orthography  thoroughly  and  practically ;  for  the  practical 
use  of  spelling  comes  in  writing. 

As  to  mathematics,  arithmetic  was  pushed,  perhaps,  too  far 
into  puzzles  ;  but  geometry  was  made  fascinating  by  showing  its 
real  applications  and  the  beauty  of  its  reasoning.  It  is  the  only 
mathematical  study  I  ever  loved.  In  natural  science,  though 
most  of  the  apparatus  of  schools  nowadays  was  wanting,  Mr. 
Allen’s  instruction  was  far  beyond  his  time.  Never  shall  I  for¬ 
get  my  excited  interest  when,  occasionally,  a  surgeon  of  the  vil¬ 
lage  came  in,  and  the  whole  school  was  assembled  to  see  him 
dissect  the  eye  or  ear  or  heart  of  an  ox.  Physics,  as  then  under¬ 
stood,  was  studied  in  a  text-book,  and  there  was  illustration  by 
ordinary  apparatus,  which  fastened  firmly  in  my  mind  the  main 
facts  and  principles. 

The  only  mistake  in  Mr.  Allen’s  teaching  was  too  much  at¬ 
tention  to  English  grammar.  The  true  order  ought  to  be,  liter¬ 
ature  first,  and  grammar  afterward.  Perhaps  there  is  no  more 
tiresome  trifling  in  the  world  for  boys  and  girls  than  rote  recita¬ 
tions  and  parsing  from  one  of  the  usual  grammatical  text-books. 

As  to  physical  development,  every  reasonable  encouragement 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


was  given  to  play,  Mr.  Allen  going  frequently  upon  the  play¬ 
grounds.  He  was  also  an  excellent  musician,  and  a  most  help¬ 
ful  influence  was  exerted  by  singing,  which  was  a  daily  ex¬ 
ercise  of  the  school.  I  then  began  taking  lessons  regularly  in 
music,  and  became  proficient  enough  to  play  the  organ  occasion¬ 
ally  in  church.  The  best  result  of  this  training  was  to  give  my 
life  one  of  its  deepest  and  purest  pleasures. 

As  to  the  moral  side,  Mr.  Allen  influenced  many  of  us 
strongly  by  liberalizing  and  broadening  our  horizon.  He  was  a 
disciple  at  that  time  of  Channing,  and  an  abolitionist ;  but  he 
never  made  any  speeches  on  the  subject — certainly  never  made 
the  slightest  attempt  to  proselyte  any  of  his  students.  Yet  the 
very  atmosphere  of  the  school  made  sectarian  bigotry  and  nar¬ 
rowness  impossible. 

But  Mr.  Allen’s  was  an  English  department,  and,  as  I  was  to 
go  to  college,  I  was  removed  to  a  classical  school.  This  school 
was  not  at  first  very  successful.  Its  classical  teacher  was  a  good 
scholar,  but  careless.  Under  him,  I  repeated  the  rules  in  Latin 
and  Greek  glibly,  for  term  after  term,  without  really  understand¬ 
ing  the  practical  value  of  the  cases,  or  what  was  meant  by  one 
word  “  governing  ”  another.  His  great  mistake,  which  seems  to 
me  not  an  infrequent  one,  was  taking  it  for  granted  that  repeat¬ 
ing  rules  and  forms  means  understanding  them.  He  was  suc¬ 
ceeded  by  H - ,  at  present  an  eminent  Presbyterian  divine  and 

professor  in  a  Southern  university.  He  was  one  of  the  noblest 
and  truest  of  men,  and  his  manly,  moral  influence  over  his 
scholars  was  remarkable.  Many  of  them  have  reached  positions 
of  commanding  usefulness,  and  I  think  they  will  agree  that  his 
influence  upon  their  lives  was  most  happy.  The  only  drawback 
was  that  he  was  still  very  young,  not  yet  through  his  senior  year 
in  Union  College,  and  his  methods  in  classical  teaching  were 
imperfect.  He  loved  his  classics,  and  taught  his  better  students 
to  love  them ;  but  he  was  neither  thorough  in  grammar  nor  a 
sure  guide  at  all  times  in  translation,  as  I  afterward  found  to  my 

sorrow.  My  friend  and  schoolmate  of  that  time,  W.  O.  S - , 

published,  a  few  years  since,  in  the  ‘‘  St.  Mcholas,”  an  account 
of  this  school.  The  picture  he  there  gave  was  somewhat 
idealized,  but  we  doubtless  agree  in  thinking  that  the  want  in 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


grammatical  drill  was  more  tlian  made  up  bj  the  love  of  manli* 
ness  and  tbe  dislike  of  meanness  wbicb  was  in  those  days  our 
very  atmosphere. 

As  to  education  outside  of  the  school,  very  important  to  me 
was  the  discovery  of  “  The  Monastery,  by  the  author  of  Waver- 
ley.”  Who  the  “author  of  Waverley  ”  was  I  neither  knew  nor 
cared,  but  read  the  book  three  times  in  a  sort  of  fascination.  Un¬ 
fortunately,  novels  and  romances  were  kept  locked  up  as  unfit 
reading  for  children,  and  it  was  long  before  I  reveled  in  the  other 
novels  of  Scott.  That  they  would  have  been  thoroughly  good 
and  wholesome  reading  for  me  I  know.  Then  and  later  they 
opened  a  new  world  to  me,  and  gave  healthful  play  to  my  imag¬ 
ination.  At  that  time,  too,  I  read  and  re-read,  with  a  sort  of 
“  awful  joy,”  Bunyan’s  “  Pilgrim’s  Progress_,”  and  still  later,  with 
intense  pleasure,  the  earlier  works  of  Dickens.  My  only  regret 
as  regards  that  time  is  that,  between  the  rather  trashy  “  boys’ 
books  ”  on  the  one  side  and  the  rather  severe  books  in  the  family 
library  on  the  other,  I  read  far  less  of  really  good  literature  than 
I  might  easily  have  done.  My  reading  was  absolutely  without 
a  guide,  hence  fitful  and  scrappy,  parts  of  Eollin’s  “Ancient 
History  ”  and  Lander’s  “  Travels  in  Africa  ”  being  mixed  up  with 
“  Eobinson  Crusoe  ”  and  “  The  Scottish  Chiefs.”  Much  reflection 
on  my  experience  has  convinced  me  that  some  kindly  direction  in 
the  reading  of  a  fairly  scholarly  boy  is  of  the  utmost  importance, 
and  never  more  so  than  now,  when  there  are  so  many  books  press¬ 
ing  for  attention.  I  should  lay  much  stress,  also,  on  the  hearing 
of  good  literature  well  read,  and  the  interspersing  of  such  reading 
with  some  remarks  by  the  reader,  pointing  out  the  main  beauties 
of  the  pieces  thus  presented. 

About  my  tenth  year  occurred  an  event,  apparently  trivial, 
but  really  very  important  in  my  mental  development.  My 
father  brought  home  one  day,  as  a  “center-table  book,”  a  hand¬ 
some  quarto  called  “The  Gallery  of  British  Artists.”  It  con¬ 
tained  engravings  from  pictures  by  Turner,  Stanfield,  Catter- 
mole,  and  others,  mainly  representing  scenes  from  Scott’s 
novels,  and  picturesque  old  towns  in  France  and  Italy.  Of 
this  book  I  never  tired.  It  aroused  in  me  an  intense  desire  to 
know  more  of  the  subjects  represented,  and  this  desire  has  led 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


me  since  to  visit  and  to  study  every  cathedral  church  and  town- 
hall  of  any  historical  or  architectural  significance  in  Europe, 
outside  of  the  Spanish  peninsula.  But,  far  more  important, 
it  led  me  to  read  and  re-read  all  of  Scott’s  novels,  and  espe¬ 
cially  the  one  which  I  always  thought  the  most  fascinating — 
“Quentin  Durward.”  This  novel  led  me  later,  not  merely  to 
visit  Liege  and  Orleans,  Clery  and  Tours,  but  to  devour  the 
chroniclers  and  historians  who  dealt  with  that  period,  and 
finally  to  become  deeply  interested  in  historical  studies,  and  to 
learn  how  great  principles  lie  hidden  beneath  the  surface  of 
events.  The  first  of  these  I  ever  clearly  discerned  was  upon 
reading  “Quentin  Durward”  and  “Anne  of  Geierstein,”  and 
finding  revealed  in  them  the  secret  of  the  centralization  of 
power  in  Europe,  and  the  triumph  of  monarchy  over  feudalism. 

In  my  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  years  another  element  entered 
into  my  education.  Syracuse,  as  the  central  city  of  the  State, 
was  the  scene  of  many  conventions  and  public  meetings.  It  was 
a  time  of  very  deep  earnestness  in  political  matters.  The  last 
great  efforts  were  making,  by  the  more  radical,  to  prevent  the 
extension  of  slavery,  and  by  the  more  conservative,  to  secure 
the  preservation  of  the  Union.  The  former  of  these  efforts  in¬ 
terested  me  most.  There  were  at  Syracuse  frequent  public  de¬ 
bates  between  various  groups  of  the  antislavery  party,  repre¬ 
sented  by  such  men  as  Gerrit  Smith,  Wendell  Phillips,  William 
Lloyd  Garrison,  John  Parker  Hale,  Samuel  Joseph  May,  and 
Frederick  Douglass.  They  took  strong  hold  upon  me,  and 
gave  me  a  higher  idea  of  a  man’s  best  work  in  life.  That  was 
the  bloom  period,  too,  of  the  old  lecture  system.  It  was  ‘the 
time  when  lectures  were  expected  to  build  character  and  in¬ 
crease  knowledge.  The  sensation  and  buffoon  business,  which 
destroyed  the  system,  had  not  come  in.  I  remember,  and  feel  to 
this  hour,  the  good  influences  of  lectures  then  heard  in  the  old 
city-hall  at  Syracuse,  from  President  Mark  Hopkins,  Bishop 
Alonzo  Potter,  Senator  Hale  of  Hew  Hampshire,  Emerson, 
Whipple,  and  others. 

In  my  seventeenth  year  came  a  trial.  My  father  had  taken 
a  leading  part  in  establishing  a  parish  school  for  St.  Paul’s 
Church,  in  Syracuse,  in  accordance  with  the  high  church  views 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


of  the  rector,  Dr.  Gregory,  and  there  was  finally  called  to  the 
mastership  a  young  candidate  for  orders.  He  was  a  brilliant 
scholar  and  a  charming  man,  and  it  has  not  surprised  those  who 
knew  him  then  to  see  him  become  one  of  the  most  highly 
esteemed  among  the  younger  bishops  of  the  Protestant  Epis- 
‘copal  Church.  To  him  I  was  sent  for  my  final  preparation  be¬ 
fore  leaving  for  college.  I  had  always  intended  to  enter  one  of 
the  larger  New  England  universities ;  but  my  teacher,  yielding 
to  his  strong  church  feeling  and  his  natural  love  for  his  alma 
mater^  induced  my  father  to  insist  on  placing  me  at  a  small 
Protestant  Episcopal  college  in  western  New  York.  I  went 
most  reluctantly.  There  were  in  the  faculty  several  excellent 
men,  one  of  whom  afterward  became  a  colleague  of  my  own  in 
Cornell  University,  and  proved  of  the  greatest  value  to  that  in¬ 
stitution.  Unfortunately,  we,  of  the  lower  classes,  could  have 
very  little  instruction  from  him.  Still,  we  had  some  good  in¬ 
struction  from  others ;  the  tutor  in  Greek  was  one  of  the  best 
scholars  I  have  ever  known. 

But  the  college,  as  a  whole,  was  at  its  lowest  ebb.  There 
were  but  about  forty  students,  and  the  great  majority  of  these, 
sons  of  wealthy  churchmen,  felt  no  inclination  for  work,  and 
much  inclination  to  dissipation.  Of  discipline,  there  was  noue. 
The  authorities  of  the  college  could  not  afford  to  expel  or  even 
offend  a  student.  Its  endowment  was  so  small  that  it  must  have 
all  the  instruction  fees  possible,  and  must  keep  in  the  good 
graces  of  the  wealthy  fathers  of  its  scapegrace  students.  The 
students  soon  found  this  out,  and  the  result  was  a  little  pande¬ 
monium.  Only  about  half  a  dozen  of  our  number  studied  at  all ; 
the  rest,  by  translations,  promptings,  and  evasions  of  various 
sorts,  escaped  without  labor.  I  have  had  to  do  since,  as  student 
or  professor,  with  some  half-dozen  large  universities,  at  home 
and  abroad ;  and,  in  all  of  these  together,  I  have  not  seen  so  much 
carousing  and  wild  dissipation  as  I  then  saw  in  this  little  church 
college,  of  which  the  especial  boast  was  that,  being  small,  it  was 
“  able  to  exercise  a  direct  Christian  influence  upon  its  students.” 

At  the  close  of  the  year  I  determined  to  try  for  something 
better ;  and,  as  my  father  was  determined  to  have  me  remain  at 
the  little  college,  I  made  a  coii'p  detat  Braving  the  censure  of 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


family  and  friends,  I  deliberately  left  college,  and  took  refuge 

with  my  old  instructor,  P - ,  who  had  prepared  me  for  college 

at  Syracuse,  but  who  was  now  the  principal  of  the  academy  at 
Moravia,  near  the  head  of  Owasco  Lake,  some  fifty  miles  dis¬ 
tant.  Of  the  struggle  and  the  sorrow  it  cost  me  thus  to  defy 
the  wishes  of  those  dearest  to  me  there  is  no  need  to  speak, 

further  than  to  sav  that  it  made  me  determine  to  atone  for 

«/ 

my  disobedience  by  severe  and  systematic  work.  I  began 
labor  in  earnest,  by  reviewing  my  mathematics  and  classics,  and 
by  a  course  of  reading  which  had  great  infiuence  on  my  after 
studies.  Among  my  books  was  D’ Aubigne’s  “  History  of  the 
Eeformation.”  Its  deficiencies  were  not  of  a  sort  to  harm  me; 
its  vigor  and  enthusiasm  gave  me  a  great  impulse.  I  not  only 
read,  but  studied  it,  and  followed  it  with  every  other  book  on 
the  same  subject  that  I  could  find.  No  reading  ever  did  a 
man  more  good.  It  not  only  strengthened  and  deepened  my 
better  purposes,  but  it  continued  powerfully  the  impulse  given 
me  by  my  reading  of  the  historical  novels  of  Scott,  and  led 
directly  to  my  devoting  myself  to  the  study  and  teaching  of 
modern  history. 

In  January,  1851,  I  entered  the  sophomore  class  of  Yale 
College — and  never  was  man  more  disappointed  at  first.  The 
president  and  professors  were,  indeed,  men  of  the  highest 
character  and  attainments,  and  the  students  were  under  far 
better  discipline  than  at  the  little  college  from  which  I  had 
come.  But  to  the  lower  classes  the  instruction  was  given 
mainly  by  tutors,  who  took  up  teaching  for  bread-winning,  be¬ 
fore  going  into  the  ministry.  Naturally,  most  of  the  work  done 
under  them  was  perfunctory.  There  was  too  much  “reciting” 
by  rote,  and  too  little  real  intercourse  between  teacher  and 
taught.  The  instructor  sat  in  a  box,  heard  students’  transla¬ 
tions  without  indicating  anything  better,  and  their  answers  to 
questions  without  making  suggestions  or  remarks. 

In  the  junior  yea^r,  matters  improved  somewhat ;  but,  though 
the  professors  were  most  of  them  really  distinguished  men,  and 
one,  at  least,  a  scholar  who  at  Berlin  or  Leipzig  would  have 
drawn  throngs  of  students  from  all  Christendom,  they  were  fet¬ 
tered  by  “  the  system,”  which  made  much  of  “  gerund-grinding  ” 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


and  little  of  literature  as  such.  I  do  not  feel  called  upon  here 
to  repeat  the  more  extended  criticisms  made  by  me,  as  one  of  its 
former  editors,  in  the  “Yale  Literary  Magazine,”  last  year. 

In  the  senior  year,  the  influence  of  President  Woolsey  and 
Professor  Porter  was  strong  for  good.  Though  “  the  system  ” 
fettered  them  somewhat,  their  personality  broke  through  it. 

Very  important  in  my  intellectual  development,  at  this  time, 
was  my  intercourse  with  my  fellow-students.  I  cannot  ascribe 
quite  so  much  to  them  as  Dr.  Edward  Everett  Hale  does,  in  his 
contribution  to  this  series;  but  I  ascribe  much.  Talk  with 
them  was  of  very  great  value,  and  some  of  my  best  impulses 
and  suggestions  to  reading  came  from  them. 

Valuable  to  me  also  was  my  membership  in  sundry  college 
societies,  and  especially  in  a  senior  club,  in  which  off-hand  dis¬ 
cussions  of  subjects  literary  and  political  were  peculiarly  useful. 

It  was  my  fortune  to  secure  sundry  prizes  offered  for  es¬ 
says  ;  among  them,  the  First  Clark  Prize,  the  Yale  Literary 
Prize,  and  the  De  Forest  Prize.  The  history  of  this  latter 
success  may  serve  to  show  certain  ways  in  which  influence 
can  be  exerted  powerfully  upon  a  young  man.  As  regards 
the  subject,  it  was  suggested  by  hearing  Edwin  Forrest  in 
Bulwer’s  drama  of  “Richelieu.”  The  character  of  the  great 
cardinal,  the  greatest  statesman  that  France  has  produced, 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  me,  and  suggested  the  subjects 
in  both  the  Yale  Literary  and  the  De  Forest  competitions,  giv¬ 
ing  me  not  only  the  initial  impulse,  but  maintaining  that  in¬ 
terest  in  the  work  to  which  the  result  was  largely  due. 
Another  spur  to  success  was  even  more  effective.  I  one  day 
received  a  telegram  from  my  father,  asking  me  to  meet  him  in 
New  York.  I  did  so,  and  passed  an  hour  with  him,  all  the  time 
at  a  loss  to  know  why  he  had  sent  for  me.  As  I  was  leaving 
the  hotel  to  return  to  New  Haven,  he  said,  “  By  the  way,  there 
is  still  another  prize,  the  largest  of  all,  to  be  competed  for.” 
“Yes,”  I  answered,  “ the  De  Forest;  but  I  have  little  chance  for 
that ;  for,  though  I  may  be  one  of  the  six  Townsend  prize  men 
admitted  to  the  competition,  there  are  other  speakers  so  much 
better  that  I  have  little  hope  of  taking  it.”  He  gave  me  rather 
a  scornful  look,  and  said  very  impressively :  “  If  I  v^ere  one  of 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


the  first  six  competitors,  in  a  class  of  over  a  hundred  men,  I 
should  try  very  hard  to  be  the  first  one.”  He  said  nothing  more 
except  good-by.  On  my  way  to  New  Haven  I  thought  much  of 
this,  and,  on  arriving,  went  to  an  elocutionist  and  engaged  him 
for  a  course  of  vocal  gymnastics.  When  he  wished  me  to  re¬ 
cite  my  oration  before  him,  I  declined,  saying  that  it  must  be 
spoken  in  my  own  way,  not  in  his ;  that  his  way  might  be  better, 
but  that  mine  was  my  own,  and  I  would  have  no  other.  He  con¬ 
fined  himself,  therefore,  to  a  course  of  vocal  gymnastics  alone, 
and  the  result  was  a  surprise  to  myself  and  all  my  friends. 
My  voice,  from  being  weak  and  hollow,  became  round,  strong, 
and  flexible.  I  then  went  to  a  student  in  the  class  above  my 
own,  a  natural  and  forcible  speaker,  and  made  an  arrangement 
with  him  to  hear  me  pronounce  my  oration,  and  to  criticise  it  in 
a  common-sense  way.  This  he  did.  At  passages  where  he 
thought  my  method  wrong,  he  raised  his  finger,  gave  me  an  imi¬ 
tation  of  my  own  manner,  then  gave  the  passage  in  the  way  he 
thought  best,  and  allowed  me  to  choose  between  his  and  mine. 
The  result  was  that  at  the  public  competition  I  was  successful. 
This  experience  taught  me  what  I  conceive  to  be  the  true  theory 
of  elocutionary  training  in  our  universities  :  vocal  gymnastics 
on  one  side,  common-sense  criticism  on  the  other. 

^  ,  C 

These  reminiscences  ought  not  to  close  without  reference 
to  my  physical  education  in  college.  With  a  constitution  far 
from  robust,  there  was  need  of  special  care  in  this  respect. 
Fortunately,  I  took  to  boating.  In  an  eight-oared  boat,  spinning 

down  the  harbor  or  up  the  river,  with  G.  W.  S - at  the  stroke 

— as  earnest  and  determined  in  the  “  Undine,”  then,  as  in  the 
London  office  of  the  “  New  York  Tribune,”  now — every  condition 
was  satisfied  for  bodily  exercise  and  mental  recreation.  I  can¬ 
not  refrain  from  mentioning  that  our  club  then  sent  the  first 
challenge  to  row  that  ever  passed  between  Yale  and  Harvard, 
even  though  I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  we  were  soundly 
beaten ;  but  neither  that  defeat  at  Lake  Quinsigamond,  nor  the 
many  absurdities  which,  have  grown  out  of  such  competitions 
since,  have  prevented  my  remaining  an  apostle  of  college  boating 
from  that  day  to  this.  If  guarded  by  common-sense  rules,  en¬ 
forced  with  firmness  by  college  faculties,  it  gives  the  maximum 


HOW  1  WAS  EDUCATED. 


of  healthful  exercise  with  a  minimum  of  danger.  The  most 
detestable  product  of  college  life  is  the  sickly  cynic;  and  a 
thorough  course  of  boating,  under  a  good  stroke  oar,  does  as 
much  as  anything  to  make  him  impossible. 

At  the  close  of  my  life  at  Yale,  I  went  abroad  for  nearly 
three  years.  Fortunately,  for  this  part  of  my  education  I  had 

one  of  the  best  of  companions,  my  college-mate  D.  C.  G - , 

who  was  then,  as  he  has  been  since,  a  source  of  good  inspira¬ 
tions  to  me,  especially  in  the  formation  of  my  ideas  regarding 
education.  My  first  year,  after  a  few  weeks’  sight-seeing  in 
England,  was  mainly  spent  in  Paris.  There  I  settled  down  in 
the  family  of  a  very  intelligent  French  professor,  and  remained 
seven  months.  Not  a  word  of  English  was  spoken  in  the 
family ;  and,  with  the  daily  lesson  in  a  French  method,  and  lect¬ 
ures  at  the  Sorbonne  and  College  de  France,  the  new  language 
soon  became  familiar.  The  lectures  then  heard  strengthened 
my  conception  of  what  a  university  should  be.  Among  my 
professors  were  such  men  as  Laboulaye,  St.  Marc  Girardin,  and 
Arnould.  In  connection  with  the  lecture-room  work,  my  studies 
in  modern  history  were  continued,  especially  by  reading  Thierry, 
Mignet,  Thiers,  Chateaubriand,  and  other  historians,  besides 
hearing  various  masterpieces  in  French  dramatic  literature,  as 
given  at  the  Theatre  Fran^ais,  where  Eachel  was  then  in  her 
glory,  and  at  the  Odeon,  where  Mademoiselle  Georges,  who  had 
begun  her  career  under  the  first  Napoleon,  was  ending  it  with 
splendor  under  Napoleon  the  Third. 

But  my  favorite  subject  of  study  was  the  French  Eevolution, 
and,  in  the  intervals  of  reading  and  lectures,  I  sought  out  not 
only  the  spots  noted  in  its  history,  but  the  men  who  had  taken 
part  in  it.  At  the  Hotel  des  Invalides  I  talked  with  old  sol¬ 
diers,  veterans  of  the  wars  of  the  Eepublic  and  of  Napoleon, 
discussing  with  them  the  events  through  which  they  had  passed  ; 
and  at  various  other  places  and  times  with  civilians  who  had 
heard  orations  at  the  Jacobin  and  Cordelier  clubs,  and  had  seen 
the  guillotine  at  work.  The  most  interesting  of  my  old  soldiers 
at  the  Invalides  wore  upon  his  breast  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  which  he  had  received  from  Napoleon  at  Austerlitz ;  and 
the  most  interesting  of  my  civilian  acquaintances  described  to 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


me  how,  as  a  schoolboy,  he  saw  Napoleon  beside  his  camp-fire, 
at  Cannes,  just  after  his  landing  from  Elba. 

Toward  the  close  of  this  year,  with  a  college  classmate,  I 
employed  my  vacation  in  long  walks  and  drives  through  north¬ 
ern,  western,  and  central  France,  including  Picardy,  Normandy, 
Brittany,  and  Touraine,  visiting  the  spots  of  most  historic  and 
architectural  interest.  At  this  time,  too,  I  made,  at  the  request 
of  Mr.  Eandall,  the  biographer  of  Jefferson,  some  search  in  the 
French  archives  for  correspondence  between  Jefferson  and 
Kobespierre  ;  and,  though  the  effort  was  in  vain,  it  served  to  ini¬ 
tiate  me  into  that  sort  of  research. 

At  the  close  of  this  stay  in  France,  by  the  kindness  of  the 
American  Minister  to  Kussia,  Governor  Seymour,  of  Connecticut, 
I  was  invited  to  St.  Petersburg  as  an  attache  of  the  American 
Legation,  residing  in  his  household.  It  was  a  most  interesting 
period.  The  Crimean  War  was  going  on,  and  the  death  of  the 
Emperor  Nicholas,  during  my  stay,  enabled  me  to  see  how  a 
great  change  in  autocratic  administration  is  accomplished.  My 
main  work,  as  regards  the  legation,  was  as  an  interpreter,  and  it 
was  my  duty,  in  this  capacity,  to  accompany  the  minister  not  only 
at  court,  but  in  his  interviews  with  Nesselrode,  Gortchakoff,  and 
others  then  in  power.  This  gave  me  some  chance  to  make  my 
historical  studies  real  by  close  observation  of  a  certain  sort  of 
men,  who  have  had  the  making  of  far  too  much  of  history.  But 
books  interested  me  none  the  less.  An  epoch  in  my  life  was 
made  by  reading  Guizot’s  “  History  of  Civilization  in  France,” 
for  it  greatly  deepened  and  strengthened  the  impressions  made 
by  his  “  History  of  Civilization  in  Europe,”  as  read  under  Dr. 
Woolsey,  at  Yale.  During  those  seven  months  in  St.  Peters¬ 
burg  and  Moscow,  I  read  much  in  modern  European  history, 
paying  considerable  attention  to  the  political  development  and 
condition  of  Eussia,  and  for  the  first  time  learned  the  pleasures 
of  investigation  into  the  history  of  our  own  country.  Governor 
Seymour  was  especially  devoted  to  the  ideas  of  Thomas  Jeffer¬ 
son,  and  late  at  night,  as  we  sat  before  the  fire,  on  returning  from 
festivities  or  business  interviews,  he  would  bring  on  a  discussion 
of  the  democratic  system,  as  advocated  by  Jefferson,  compared 
with  the  autocratic  system,  as  we  saw  it  from  the  capital  of  the 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


czar.  The  result  was  that  my  beginning  of  real  study  in  Amer¬ 
ican  history  was  made  by  a  very  close  examination  of  the  life 
and  writings  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  including  his  letters,  messages, 
and  other  papers,  and  of  the  diplomatic  history  revealed  in  the 
volumes  of  correspondence  preserved  in  the  legation.  The  gen¬ 
eral  result  was  to  strengthen  and  deepen  my  democratic  creed, 
and  a  special  result  was  the  preparation  of  an  article  on  “Jeffer¬ 
son  and  Slavery,”  which,  having  been  refused  by  the  “  New 
Englander,”  at  New  Haven,  on  account  of  its  too  pronounced 
sympathy  with  democracy  against  federalism,  was  published  by 
the  “  Atlantic  Monthly,”  and  led  to  some  acquaintances  of  much 
value  to  me  afterward. 

Eeturning  from  St.  Petersburg,  I  was  matriculated  at  the 
University  of  Berlin,  and  entered  the  family  of  a  very  intelligent 
gymnasial  professor,  where  nothing  but  Gierman  was  spoken. 
During  this  stay  at  Berlin,  in  the  years  1855-6,  I  heard  the  lect¬ 
ures  of  Lepsius,  August  Boeckh,  Carl  Bitter,  Friedrich  von 
Eaumer,  and  others.  The  lectures  of  Eanke  I  could  not  follow. 
He  had  a  habit  of  becoming  so  absorbed  in  his  subject  as  to  slip 
down  in  his  chair,  hold  his  finger  up  toward  the  ceiling,  and 
then,  with  his  eye  fastened  on  the  tip  of  it,  go  mumbling  through 
a  kind  of  rhapsody,  which  most  of  my  German  fellow-students 
confessed  they  could  not  understand.  It  was  a  comical  sight : 
half  a  dozen  students  crowding  around  his  desk  listening  to  the 
professor,  as  priests  might  listen  to  the  sibyl  on  her  tripod,  the 
other  students  being  scattered  through  the  room  in  various  stages 
of  discouragement.  My  studies  at  this  period  were  mainly  in 
the  direction  of  history,  though  with  some  reading  on  art  and 
literature.  Yaluable  and  interesting  to  me,  at  this  time,  were 
the  representations  of  the  best  dramas  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  and 
Lessing,  at  the  Berlin  theater.  Then,  too,  really  began  my 
education  in  Shakespeare:  the  representations  of  his  plays  (in 
Tieck’s  version)  were,  on  the  whole,  the  most  satisfactory  I  have 
ever  known. 

At  the  close  of  this  stay  in  Berlin,  I  went,  with  a  party  of 
fellow-students,  through  Austria  to  Italy.  During  the  whole  of 
the  journey  it  was  my  exceeding  good  fortune  to  be  thrown  into 
very  close  relations  with  two  of  the  party,  both  of  whom  became 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


eminent  Latin  professors,  and  one  of  whom,  Dr.  Henry  S.  Frieze, 
from  his  lecture-room  in  the  University  of  Michigan,  as  a  center, 
has  done  more  than  any  other  man  within  my  knowledge  to 
make  classical  scholarship  a  means  of  culture  throughout  our 
Western  States.  My  excursions  in  Home,  under  such  guidance, 
I  have  always  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  fortunate  things  of  life. 
The  day  was  given  to  exploration,  the  evening  to  discussion,  not 
merely  of  archaeological  theories,  hut  of  the  weightier  matters 
pertaining  to  the  history  of  Eoman  civilization  and  its  influence. 
Dear  Frieze  and  Fishburne  !  How  vividly  come  back  the  days 
in  the  tower  of  the  Croce  di  Malta,  at  Genoa,  and  in  our  sky- 
parlor  of  the  Piazzi  di  Spagna,  at  Home,  when  we  held  “  high 
debate  ”  on  “  the  resemblance  of  the  Eoman  power  to  the  Brit¬ 
ish,”  and  kindred  subjects. 

An  episode  of  much  importance  to  me,  at  this  time,  was 
meeting  at  Naples  our  American  Minister  at  that  court,  Eobert 
Dale  Owen.  His  talks  on  the  political  state  of  Italy,  and  his 
pictures  of  the  monstrous  despotism  of  “  King  Bomba,”  took 
strong  hold  of  me.  Not  even  the  vivid  pages  of  Colletta  or  of 
Settembrini  have  done  so  much  to  arouse  in  me  a  sense  of  the 
moral  value  of  political  history. 

These  studies  were  followed  up  by  excursions  among  the  old 
cities  of  southern  France,  which  give  a  far  better  conception  of 
that  wonderful  Eoman  power  than  can  be  obtained  in  Italy 
alone.  At  this  period,  too,  my  education,  on  the  aesthetic  side, 
was  further  developed  by  the  study  of  art  in  its  various  phases, 
but,  above  all,  of  architecture,  as  displayed  in  cathedrals  and 
towQ-halls. 

In  1856  I  returned,  and  met  my  class,  assembled  to  take 
their  masters’  degrees  in  course,  at  Yale.  Then  came  the  turn¬ 
ing-point  in  my  whole  education.  I  had  been  for  some  time 
uneasy  because  the  way  did  not  seem  clear  before  me ;  but  at 
this  Yale  Commencement  of  1856,  while  lounging  with  my 
classmates  in  the  college  yard,  I  heard  some  one  say  that 
President  Wayland,  of  Brown  University,  was  speaking  in  the 
Alumni  Hall.  Going  to  the  door,  I  looked  within,  and  saw 
upon  the  platform  an  old  man,  heavy-browed,  with  spectacles 
resting  upon  the  top  of  his  head.  Just  at  that  moment  he  said, 


HOW  I  WAS  EDUCATED. 


very  impressively,  that  in  his  opinion  the  best  field  of  work  for 
graduates  was  in  the  W est ;  that  the  country  was  shortly  to 
arrive  at  “  a  switching-off  place  ”  toward  good  or  evil ;  that  the 
West  was  to  hold  the  balance  of  power,  and  to  determine 
whether  the  country  should  prove  a  blessing  or  a  curse  in 
human  history  ;  and  he  upheld  the  claims  of  the  West  upon  the 
best  work  of  college  men. 

I  had  never  seen  him  before ;  I  never  saw  him  afterward. 
His  speech  lasted,  perhaps,  ten  minutes ;  but  it  settled  a  great 
question  for  me.  I  went  home,  wrote  to  sundry  friends  that  I 
was  a  candidate  for  the  professorship  of  history  in  any  Western 
college  where  there  was  a  chance  to  get  at  students ;  and  re¬ 
ceived  two  calls,  one  to  a  Southern  university,  which  I  could 
not  accept  on  account  of  mj^  antislavery  opinions,  the  other  to 
the  University  of  Michigan,  which  I  accepted.  My  old  Yale 
friends  were  kind  enough  to  tender  me  a  position  for  the  build¬ 
ing  up  of  their  school  of  art ;  but  my  belief  was  in  the  value  of 
historical  studies.  The  words  of  Way  land  rang  in  my  ears,  and 
I  went  to  the  University  of  Michigan.  The  work  there  was  a 
joy  to  me  from  first  to  last.  My  relations  with  my  students  of 
that  period,  before  I  had  become  distracted  from  them  by  the 
cares  of  an  executive  position,  were  among  the  most  delightful 
of  my  life.  And  then  began,  perhaps,  the  most  real  part  of 
my  education.  I  learned  the  meaning  of  the  proverb,  Docendo 
disces.  I  found  active,  energetic  Western  men  in  my  classes, 
ready  to  discuss  historical  questions  ;  and  I  found  that,  in  order 
to  keep  up  my  part  of  such  discussions  and  class-room  duties,  I 
must  work  as  I  had  never  worked  before.  The  education  I  re¬ 
ceived  from  my  classes  at  the  University  of  Michigan  was 
perhaps  the  most  useful  of  all.  / 

Andeew  H.  White. 


library 

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BASED  UPON  THE  COURSE  OF  PROFESSIONAL  READING 
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“  Quite  the  most  compact,  convenient,  accurate,  and  authoritative  work  of 
the  kind  in  the  language.  It  is  a  happy  combination  of  history,  biography,  and 
geography,  and  should  find  a  place  in  every  family  library,  as  well  as  at  the 
elbow  of  every  scholar  and  writer.” — New  York  Evening  Post. 

“  One  of  the  most  complete,  compact,  and  valuable  works  of  reference  yet 
produced.” — Troy  Daily  Times. 

“  Unequaled  in  its  field.” — Boston  Courier. 

“  A  small  library  in  itself.” — Chicago  Dial. 

“  An  invaluable  book  of  reference,  useful  alike  to  the  student  and  the  gen¬ 
eral  reader.  The  arrangement  could  scarcely  be  better  or  more  convenient.” — 
New  York  Herald. 

“  The  conspectus  of  the  world’s  history  presented  in  the  first  part  of  the  book 
is  as  full  as  the  wisest  terseness  could  put  within  the  space.” — Phila.  American. 

“We  miss  hardly  anything  that  we  should  consider  desirable,  and  we  have 
not  been  able  to  detect  a  single  mistake  or  misprint.” — New  York  Nation. 

“  So  far  as  we  have  tested  the  accuracy  of  the  present  work  we  have  found 
it  without  flaw.” — Christian  Union. 

“  The  conspicuous  merits  of  the  work  are  condensation  and  accuracy. 
These  points  alone  should  suffice  to  give  the  ‘  Historical  Reference-Book  ’  a 
place  in  every  public  and  private  library.” — Boston  Beacon. 

“  The  method  of  the  tabulation  is  admirable  for  ready  reference.” — New 
York  Home  Journal. 

“  The  cyclopaedia  of  condensed  knowledge  is  a  work  that  will  speedily  be¬ 
come  a  necessity  to  the  general  reader  as  well  as  to  the  student.” — Detroit 
Free  Press. 

“  For  clearness,  correctness,  and  the  readiness  with  which  the  reader  can  find 
the  information  of  which  he  is  in  search,  the  volume  is  far  in  advance  of  any  work 
of  its  kind  with  which  we  are  acquainted.” — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


A  CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE  OF  UNIVERSAL 
HISTORY.  Extending  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Year 
1892.  For  the  Use  of  Students,  Teachers,  and  Readers.  By 
Louis  Heilprin.  i2mo.  200  pages.  Cloth,  $1.25. 

This  is  one  of  the  three  sections  comprised  in  Heilprin’s  “  Historical  Refer¬ 
ence-Book,”  bound  separately  for  convenience  of  those  who  may  not  require 
the  entire  volume.  Specimen  pages  sent  on  request. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


TN  THE  TEACH  OF  THE  SUN.  Readings  from  the 
Diary  of  a  Globe  Trotter.  By  Frederick  Diodati  Thompson.  Pro¬ 
fusely  illustrated  with  Engravings  from  Photographs  and  Drawings  by 
Harry  Fenn.  Large  8vo.  Cloth,  gilt. 

In  this  magnificently  illustrated  volume  the  author  describes  in  an  easy,  entertain¬ 
ing,  intelligent  manner  the  tour  of  the  world.  Starting  from  New  York,  he  crosses 
the  continent,  sails  from  Vancouver  for  Japan,  where  he  spends  some  time  in  studying 
noteworthy  features  of  that  delightful  country,  and  then  visits  China,  Singapore,  Cey¬ 
lon,  and  other  places,  reserving  a  considerable  portion  of  his  time  for  India  and  Egypt, 
where  he  does  most  extensive  sight-seeing,  and  afterward  traversing  Italy  and  France 
and  returning  to  New  York  by  way  of  London  and  Liverpool.  Mr.  Thompson  is  an 
instructive  and  amusing  cicerone.  The  illustrations,  comprising  full-page  pictures, 
vignettes  and  other  text  cuts,  head  and  tail  pieces,  and  initials,  number  over  two 
hundred,  and  present  an  itinerary  of  the  journey  around  the  world,  including 
not  only  scenery,  historic  and  remarkable  buildings  and  street  scenes,  but  also  an 
abundance  of  studies  from  life,  which  show  contrasting  types  of  humanity  the  world 
over,  ranging  from  our  Western  Indians  to  Maharajahs  of  the  Orient,  and  from  the 
beautiful  women  of  Japan  to  Egyptian  fellahs.  “  In  the  Track  of  the  Sun”  gives  a 
bird’s-eye  view  of  the  world’s  picturesque  features. 


OEMS  OF  NATURE. 
William  Cullen  Bryant. 


Selections  from  the  Works  of 

Profusely  illustrated  by  Paul  de  Longpre. 


8vo.  Cloth,  gilt 

These  verses  offer  a  full  expression  of  the  great  poet’s  love  of  Nature.  The  volume 
contains  over  forty  poems,  the  list  beginning  with  the  classic  “  To  a  Waterfowl,”  and 
closing  with  “Our  Fellow- Worshippers.”  The  chronological  arrangement  enables 
the  student  of  Bryant  to  follow  the  influences  of  ripening  age  and  enlarged  experience 
upon  the  poet’s  attitude  toward  Nature.  M.  Longpre,  an  exact  as  well  as  a  loving 
student  of  the  fields  and  forests,  has  gathered  a  rich  harvest  of  the  American  flora, 
and  his  thoroughly  artistic  and  beautiful  studies,  comprising  nearly  one  hundred  sub¬ 
jects,  have  the  value  of  truthful  records  as  well  as  high  esthetic  worth. 


'J^HE  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

By  Clifton  Johnson.^  With  6o  Illustrations  from  Photographs  and 
Drawings  made  by  the  Author.  Square  8vo.  Cloth,  gilt  edges,  $2.50. 

This  volume  is  so  delightfully  novel,  quaint,  picturesque,  and  so  thoroughly  in¬ 
formed  with  the  fresh  and  unsophisticated  spirit  of  childhood,  that  it  inspires  instant 
sympathy  and  appreciation.  The  author  describes  successive  periods  of  the  country 
school— the  winter  and  summer  terms,  the  scholars  in  their  classes  and  at  the  black¬ 
board,  their  punishments,  their  fishing  and  coasting,  their  duties  and  amusements  on 
the  farm — in  short,  the  every-day  life  of  the  boys  and  girls  of  rural  New  England  in 
the  days  of  our  fathers  and  our  own.  Every  phase  of  his  subject  is  aptly  illustrated 
with  pictures  from  life. 


^HE  STORY  OF  WASHINGTON.  By  Elizabeth 
J-  Eggleston  Seelye.  Edited  by  Dr.  Edward  Eggleston.  With  over 
100  Illustrations  by  Allegra  Eggleston.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.75. 

This  book  will  supply  a  demand  for  a  life  of  Washington,  the  man,  of  convenient 
size,  popular,  including  the  latest  results  of  research,  planned  according  to  the  methods 
of  the  new  school  of  history,  and  containing  illustrations  of  almost  every  available 
subject  which  the  story  includes.  Mrs.  Seelye’s  book  is  always  interesting,  and  it  is 
not  encumbered  with  superfluous  details.  It  is  uniform  with  “  The  Story  of  Colum¬ 
bus,”  by  the  same  author. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


UBLIC  DEBTS :  An  Essay  in  the  Science  of  Fmance. 
By  Henry  C.  Adams,  Ph.  D.,  of  the  University  of  Michigan, 
and  Cornell  University.  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.50. 


CONTENTS. — Part  I.  Public  Borrowing  as  a  Financial  Policy.  Modem 
Public  Debts ;  Political  Tendencies  of  Public  Debts ;  Social  Tendencies  of  Public 
Debts  ;  Industrial  Effects  of  Public  Borrowing  ;  When  may  States  Borrow  Money  ? — 
Part  II.  National  Deficit  Financiering.  Financial  Management  of  a  War ; 
Classification  of  Public  Debts ;  Liquidation  of  War  Accounts ;  Peace  Management 
of  a  Public  Debt ;  Payment  of  Public  Debts. — Part  III.  Local  Deficit  Financiering. 
Comparison  of  Local  with  National  Debts ;  State  Indebtedness  between  1830  and 
1850  ;  Municipal  Indebtedness  ;  Policy  of  Restricting  Governmental  Duties. 

“  Dr.  Adams  has  rendered  an  important  service,  in  this  painstaking  treatise,  both 
to  financial  science  in  general  and  to  American  financial  history  in  particular.  The 
social,  political,  and  industrial  effects  of  public  borrowing  and  of  interest  paying  are 
methodically  unfolded.  The  mysteries  and  sophisms  that  have  grown  up  like  weeds 
about  public  debts  are  cleared  away  in  language  addressed  to  scholars,  but  not  too  rec¬ 
ondite  to  be  understood  by  any  reader  of  fair  education.” — New  York  Evening  Post. 

“Thoroughly  admirable  in  its  care  and  detail,  and  altogether  the  worthiest  of 
recent  publications  on  economics.” — Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 


ONEY  AND  THE  MECHANISM  OF  EXCHANGE. 
By  W.  Stanley  Jevons,  Professor  of  Logic  and  Political 
Economy  in  Owens  College,  Manchester.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.75. 


“  Prof.  Jevons  writes  in  a  sprightly  but  colorless  style,  without  trace  of  either  preju¬ 
dice  or  mannerism,  and  shows  no  commitment  to  any  theory.  The  time  is  not  very 
far  distant,  we  hope,  when  legislators  will  cease  attempting  to  legislate  upon  money 
before  they  know  what  money  is  ;  and,  as  a  possible  help  toward  such  a  change.  Prof. 
Jevons  deserves  the  credit  of  having  made  a  useful  contribution  to  a  department  of 
study  too  much  neglected,  but  of  late  years,  we  are  gratified  to  say,  becoming  less  so.” 
— New  York  Financier. 


“  The  author  offers  us  what  a  clear-sighted,  cool-headed,  scientific  student  has  to 
say  on  the  nature,  properties,  and  natural  laws  of  money,  without  regard  to  local 
interests  or  national  bias.  His  work  is  popularly  written,  and  every  page  is  replete 
with  solid  instruction  of  a  kind  that  is  just  now  lamentably  needed  by  multitudes  of 
our  people  who  are  victimized  by  the  grossest  fallacies.” — Popular  Science  Monthly. 


LEMENTS  OF  ECONOMICS.  By  Henry  Dunning 
Macleod,  M.  a.,  Barrister-at-Law,  selected  by  the  Royal  Com¬ 
missioners  for  the  Digest  of  the  Law  to  prepare  the  Digest  of 
the  Law  of  Bills  of  Exchange,  Bank  Notes,  etc.  Lecturer  on 
Political  Economy  in  the  University  of  Cambridge.  In  two  vol¬ 
umes.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.75  each. 


“  The  author  attempts  to  establish  an  exact  science  of  economics  on  a  mathemat¬ 
ical  basis — to  establish  ‘  a  new  inductive  science  ’ ;  and  he  presents  what  he  calls  ‘  a 
new  body  of  phenomena  brought  under  the  dominion  of  mathematics.’  ” — New  York 
World. 

“  A  work  which  is  destined  to  be  of  inestimable  value  to  publicists  and  students. 
Mr.  Macleod  treats  of  the  relation  between  value  and  quantity  of  labor  and  cost  of 
production,  holding  that  the  relation  between  supply  and  demand  is  the  sole  regu¬ 
lator  of  value,  and  that  value  is  the  inducement  to  the  production  of  profits.” — St. 
Louis  Republican. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


UNIVERSITY  OP  ILUNOI9-URIANA 


0112  049855148 


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